I want to remember the beautiful moments. I wonder if this is one of them, me on the back room bed, a pillow wedged between my back and the headrest. Stress beats out a low throb beneath the surface of my forehead. Beyond the screen of my laptop lie my bare feet, shadowy remnants of tan lines, slivers of nail polish. The house is quiet, almost empty. My stomach is almost empty, too. Less quiet. The moment is beautiful because I am aware. The moment is beautiful because I am writing.
My father is in the hospital. I don’t really know what that means or what, exactly, is going on. It seems like things are murky. There was a headache, some slurred speech, some bleeding in the brain, some confusion, but somehow not a stroke. Or an aneurysm. We know what it is not. Or maybe we don’t. So here I am today, holding uncertainty and worry and sadness for the things which I have not said, the thoughts I have hidden out of a fear of rejection. But what I fear most has already happened, long ago, to different people.
We’re different people now.