napowrimo day 15
this needs work, but it is as done as I can do, today.
Central, watched: the mother. Even a moment away causes wailing cries: the child almost heartbroken. A few seconds are akin to eternity, as a day can be a large part of a lifetime. True relativity, I inhale patience, try to remember how few days she has been alive. Each person in this room needs my care. Food, water, ice. My father is fixed in his hospital bed. Even his breathing is assisted. I wonder of he’ll ever go outside again. I rotate from baby to child to parent, giving food, or drink. He asks me what day it is. Thursday. Five minutes later, he asks again. I can’t tell, when I wake, how much time has passed, he says. Since I was pregnant, it seems I’ve been aware of every minute. This exhausts me, but, I can’t seem to change. Tethered, by choice, as the main sustenance for my babies, I remind myself that these days and years are temporary. Yet, when the baby awakes at 1 and 4 am, I am bleary: this night seems never ending. It is no longer Thursday. When I wake, who knows who will share this day’s air with me? We breathe deeply, in and out of dream. Who knows what tells my daughter to call for me, but she does. And, I respond. A photograph used to be temporary until fixed. That moment of perusal, in the red lit room, I’d watch my father hold the paper up, and then dip it in the fixer. A slow wash. Always that moment of decision that separated possibility from permanence.