Something Missing

My mom’s sitting in one of the matching La-Z-Boy’s. “I feel like something's missing.” She looks to her left every few minutes and asks, “where's Moses?” I tell her he'll be back soon, or he's at the doctor, or some other variation, and that satisfies her. “I haven't seen my mother in a long time. Is she ok?” I assure her everyone's ok, and that they always ask about her.

“How's Penny?”

“She's upstairs visiting her mom.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Twenty-two years.”

“A lifetime.”

I'm back at the hospital, and my dad’s still sleeping. But he stirs when the resident comes to feel his belly. He grabs her arm, holds the sheets up so she can't do her job. “I'll call the police. Get out.” She does her job and asks if I have any questions. The white blood cells are finally coming down, though they're still high. I ask how often the docs come by, and she fills me in on their process. Everyone from the nurses on up seem to know what's going on. The resident leaves, and my dad’s back asleep.

What will he be like when he wakes up? He's been sleeping for close to a week. The hospital’s not rushing him out. My mom plods on, sitting in her La-Z-Boy, glancing to her left every few minutes, wondering where Moses is.