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.
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.
Oh, Bridget. My heart aches for you. I identify with remembering the reality and dreaming of what could have been, what should have been in a kinder, fairer world. It's so painful. Love and hugs to you!
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