Thursday, May 3, 2018

Tidbits

I never knew death was catered until today. After you were gone I heard the nurse tell her trainee “after a patient dies we always call the cafeteria...” I remember being surprised that canceling lunch was their first priority (especially since you were being tube fed). Sometime later I find a cart next to your door. It’s apples, carefully arranged napkins, and tiny creamers on ice look out of place. The chocolate chip cookies are especially jarring. Were we supposed to eat this? Offer it to the funeral home picking you up? Was it a consolation prize for the doctors - better luck next time infectious disease team... have a tangerine? 

The last breath you took looked as if you were getting ready to say something really important. I will always wonder what it was. 

Telling Daddy you were gone will haunt me forever. 

Memories I’d suppressed to guard my heart against the dementia came flooding back: white birthday cakes with pink touch-me-nots; sunburnt shoulders and sandy toes eating sweetened condensed milk out of the can; fresh flowers by my bed every time I came home; planting flowers in the rain  

Mama, who will call me Lissy now? 








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