Getting There

The fat man with the French accent behind us taps the white exterior of the plane as we board: Do you think it’s good? We can hear his voice above the quiet hum of the other passengers. Don’t move. I’m not as fat as you think, he says as he straddles his way across hips and skirts to the aisle to adjust his bags. We smile, but we don’t laugh. We are clouded with anxiety. We just want to get there.

Long, winding electric rivers pulse like hardened arteries. No water, only cars pass by strings of strip malls that swallow up any sign of life. The hospital - an oasis of potted plants and grass and warm sun and vendors selling food that smells like carnival. A scene that conjures happy thoughts – a trick.

Your face is hollow and your left side droops and you talk like you have a cigar hanging from your mouth. Your lips unable to make words that sound like you. But your skin is smooth like cream and your hair as white as pearls and you are beautiful. You hold my hand and say: so glad you came.