Waiting

There's a hole in my heart the size of the Grand Canyon. My dad lies on his bed, sleeping, mostly. He wakes up and asks me to scoot him up, but he's heavy, and I can't, and it doesn't help much anyway. He asks where my mom is. I turn her chair around, so they can see and wave at each other. “What happened to her friend? I picked her up at the airport.” That would be Aunt Sara, who's been gone for over ten years. My mom asks about Aunt Sara all the time. “I spoke to Frida and Leo yesterday, everybody's ok,” I tell her. I let my dad know “It's just us here right now.”

Meanwhile, across the universe, I wake up from an afternoon nap, tired, so tired. Kicking, waiting, catching my breath. Love is us holding onto each other in the midst of our world falling apart. Love is us waving from across the room.