Day 195: 9 a.m. on a Tuesday Morning

I'm part of a continued community of writers and mourners in a 30-day writing workshop found here: http://www.refugeingrief.com/30daywriting/

September 11, 2014

TODAY'S PROMPT:

it’s 9am on a tuesday morning, and I'm standing...

It's 9 a.m. 

on a Tuesday morning and 

I'm waiting for you to arrive.

Your plane 

touched down a few hours ago

in the nearby city of Busan.

You must be weary from 

the long flight. 

New Zealand 

to South Korea. 

You must be weary from

the unexpected call. 

Your son has fallen.

He is not expected to survive.

You must be weary from

the weight of it all. 

You must be weary.

It's 9 a.m. 

on a Tuesday morning and 

and I'm standing in 

an otherwise empty hallway 

of Dongguk University Hospital

in Gyeongju, South Korea. 

Through the double doors 

behind me is your son.

Your sweet boy. My love.

Through the double doors

behind me is the man I love.

I have been sleeping here

in this hallway on the other 

side of the double doors 

from your son. I have told

him I will not leave him. I 

have told him you are coming. 

I have been here for several 

days. I have told him you are

coming.  I have kissed his face

and stroked his hair and lay

with him and held his hands.

I have touched his legs and 

kissed his toes and stroked his

cheeks and rubbed his earlobes.

I have been with your son and

I have told him you are coming. 

I have not left him.
I will not leave.

It is 9 a.m. 

on a Tuesday morning and

I am about to meet you 

for the first time. 

The mother of the man I love. 

I am about to meet you

with rounded flesh. Arms

that can hug. A voice not 

distorted from being miles away

and piped through our tiny 

computer speakers. 

I am about to meet you,

the mother of the man I love.

It is 9 a.m.

on a Tuesday morning.

Your son will die hours after

you arrive. Hours after we say

our goodbyes and learn he

will not- cannot- be disconnected

from the tubes keeping him alive.

It is 9 a.m. 

on a Tuesday morning

and your sweet son, my

sweet love, this boy this man

we hold in such a special 

place in our hearts- the place

only a mother can know- the

place only a lover can know-

this love of ours will leave us

in 14 hours and 10 minutes.

He will do it on his own. 

I have ducked into a hospital 

shower on the 5th floor and

cleaned myself up best I can.

I've used the small mirror on 

my powder case to apply some

mascara. A little blush. A little bit

of lip color. I want to look nice.

I want him to be proud of me.

Look, mum, this is my girlfriend.

Isn't she pretty? Don't you love her?

It is 9 a.m. 

on a Tuesday morning

and puffy eyes swollen face raspy voice

matted hair stunned expression 

will have to do. This is the best I have.

I'd imagined meeting you 

many times before. In my version-

my much better version- your

sweet boy and I have just stepped 

off the plane from Korea to New Zealand.

He's calling you from the crowd of 

travelers wheeling their suitcases by

and I'm sneaking into the bathroom

to touch up my makeup. I am nervous.

I am excited. I want to meet the mother

of the man I love. I want you to know

how much he is loved by me. 

And here I come out of the bathroom.

And here he laughs and kisses me 

and tells me I didn't need to do any 

fixing up at all- that I was beautiful as

I am. And here he says, "Are you ready?"

and we head off towards the meeting area.

And here we walk, holding hands, 

towards the crowd. And here I scan the

faces, looking for you. And here I find

you beaming. Waving enthusiastically.

And here I hop once or twice from 

excitement. And here we approach you

and you hug us both tightly and he

makes some funny comments so 

characteristic of his way of masking

his own nerves. And here we all walk

to the car together. Me. And you. And

your husband. And your son, 

your sweet boy, 

my love.

It is 9 a.m.

on a Tuesday morning

and this is not how we are 

supposed to be meeting one another. 

I am sitting alone in that

hallway. Your son is just beyond

the double doors. I have told

him you are coming. I have told

him I am not leaving. I am facing 

the elevator doors I expect to open

up and deliver you at any moment.

It is 9 a.m.

on a Tuesday morning

in a hospital in Korea. Your son

will die in 14 hours and 10 minutes.

I am waiting for you to come be 

here with me. I have needed you.

I have needed you so much.