I remember black panthers and yellow bowls and cheap plastic. Smells of denim, damp boots and talcum powder on wood. Yet nothing reached down and shook my soul till it rattled like a tin can, roared like a living ocean. Nothing scratched through my skin and drew blood that I could lift to my lips to taste. My mind was a washbasin of nausea and the drains were clogged. Like feeding on the grit within your fingernails, but the poignancy of that too, would scud away in some amorphous fishbowl.
Ink blots dissolved, turmeric powder scattered like infectious pollen and settled in the absorbable membranes of my poor lungs.
Maybe by my bedside they could hear me wheeze. Maybe there might have been hands rubbing my back to lull it to a calm. They might have tucked me in and kissed my forehead and said through slivers of sobs ‘Wake up, my sweet. Wake up, my love. I cannot eat without you by my side.’
But even with vomit for brains, I knew that I must not be hopeful.
Once, just once, there was sound. The humming of a little child as it drove something toylike over the sill, making the cards fall over and upsetting all the get-well-soons. A shooting thrill for three little ear bones, like a grain of salt dissolving on a parched tongue, like a hesitant lover’s gentle brushing lip against his beloved’s. My world imploded in arcs. Everything within me leapt up and embraced the sunshine. Trapezed through crevices and sang, voices of consciousness high and clear and monumental. Blood thundered through my veins. Everything hurt, but gloriously so.
‘Oh let me wake up and see your face little child. Let me ruffle your hair and gather you in my arms and read to you with whatever life I have left’
I wondered if I ever teared up. I wondered if it startled whoever it was that was watching over me.
I sure did miss a great number of things during that goddamned limbo.
a little something from a could be bundle of fiction.