Dominican Hospital
July 31st, 2011 § Leave a Comment
I notice his feet, shiny and plump, too plump; distended from all the fluids that drip into his system from the tree of IV bags beside him — his “dancing partner,” he calls it. The smooth pink skin contrasts against his yellow untrimmed toenails.
But his voice is stronger than it was last week. He sits up in bed, and later on he even shuffles his dancing partner out to the public sitting room beside his private room, where we all sit and sip coffee and visit. Just like at home. We discuss his discharge from the hospital in the future tense, not the subjunctive. We mean it.
Afterwards, I follow a little girl in a pink and purple tutu towards the lobby. She tiptoes down the hall, hand-in-hand with her father. Outside, the sun has finally burned the fog away, and dead leaves sweep circles on the concrete. They chase each other in the wind, like children.
