Another Friday night in the ER. Another rushing from work to the hospital, crying in the car, praying for the same things. Mercy. The same text from dad, a picture of the waiting room from my little brother’s Ipad; sitting in the same chair. It’s just like the time before, and before that, and the time before that.
Same eighth floor, same green visitor stickers, same parking spots, and security staff that we’ve become close with. Same brother’s sleepover routine, that couch is practically his now. We don’t have to talk anymore, we just go into autopilot.
I know the face wash she prefers, and the hand lotion she likes; her favorite socks and pajamas. I know the water bottle dad wants and to run the dryer on anti-wrinkle for his work shirts. He knows the Jimmy John’s orders and Samuel knows to pack his bag because he’ll sleep at our brother’s apartment. Nobody has to ask because we know the routine. It’s normal to sleep three hours at night, and in an empty house; to have the internet broken and nobody to fix it, to have bags under our eyes, and drive rushed just to sit in a waiting room and stare at the same painting.
This time is different because they aren’t mentioning any go-home dates. It’s different because mom couldn’t even talk to me last night, when she tried it wasn’t English. I said I love you mom and I got half of her face to smile then she poured her salt into her coffee.
It’s different because Grandpa is flying in.
Elaine Kate 