SNAPSHOTS
I
Small trailer, screened in porch, a door that sticks, brown couch, blue recliner,
coffee table. The husband, gray, thin, cyanotic lips, oxygen cannula around his
face. I have come to treat him. Strengthening exercises the doctor said.
The wife, warped by a muscle imbalance, useless arm akimbo. Despite their
problems, they manage, just like my parents I think. She showed me how to
increase the oxygen flow if he needs more. I know nothing of their life.
II
I pull into the drive by the ambulance. Gray body stretched on the floor, chair
out of place, she is screaming into the phone. “Come quick, Bill is dead” All
I knew was to hold her. Neighbors stop by, the police. “I didn’t do nothing,
I did the best I could,” she cries. Tried to get in touch with her son, but I was
shaking so hard I couldn’t dial. Someone goes to get him. The ambulance crew
gets information. Her parents finally come.
III
My father undergoing angioplasty, my mother sits alone in the wrong waiting
room, not even a volunteer to ask about family, any conversation to make
the time go faster. My parents told me not to come. A long day, the procedure
delayed. Finally someone finds her, everything has gone well. She asks for a
phone to call me. What were they thinking about me?
Iris
