Forty-Fifth Paradox Writing

We waited for the phone to ring.

They waited him to fly down,

then out, then up, then upside down.

I could say his hair caught my eye,

you could say I needed a distraction.

Across a few walls, my mom fought to breathe

Across a few latitudes, he fought gravity.

He won a gold medal in a few minutes

Mom opened her eyes in a few days.

Death still hasn’t learned his lesson.

This is the second time this year,

he’s tried to fight me.

Sometimes he comes armed with a scythe

sometimes with a breathing machine,

and feeding tubes,

but I know I scared him away;

I know he’s a coward.

He never allows his opponent to live long

enough to defeat him.

Like all hospital waiting rooms, the staff had it painted a soft yellow, a comforting color for visitors inside. Cushy couches lined every wall, and divided the room in half, in case the visitors decided to war over their divided territory. Even at eight o’ clock at night a few visitors chattered away, not allowing the 2 ft lampshades a bit of rest. The lampshades continued to dampen the light, despite the fact that it hurt their eyes, eyes that peaked out from every tiny hole in the lampshades’ fabric. A child’s toy sat in boredom on one couch-side table; no child had played with it in months. Wisely the hospital had barred young visitors from this wing of the hospital, knowing how little children like to carry diseases in their cotton-lined pockets.

Any visitor sitting on the couches long enough would notice how strange the designer’s tastes were. White contact lens shaped lamps hanged from the ceiling, with black pupils at the bottom watching the visitor’s every move. Wooden shelves too narrow to hold books branched out from the far wall. Perhaps the decorator intended them to be windows, only to realize this wall only opened to the inside of the building, not the outside.

A desk and a door kept guard over the intensive care unit, scrutinizing each and every visitor that came their way. A slight groan in their wooden bodies indicated a yes, while two said  no. When a visitor didn’t past the unspoken test, the door would fail to open when a visitor pulled on his handle. By the time the visitor arrived with hospital help, the door would have already sent messages through the floor tiles to all the other doors to keep alert. So far no incidents had occurred to warrant summoning floor-wet signs in the closet, but the waiting door room and desk dutifully kept on watching. Two days before they had celebrated their two month anniversary, though no other piece of furniture could figure out what they had done two months earlier to warrant such an occasion.

A separate room had a television, a vending machine, and several more tables. The room was deceptively dark, because no one ever turned the lights on. Unsuspecting visitors would suppose the room to be quiet, when in fact the television seemed permanently set between two channels: one with 24 hour news casts in English, and the other with telenovas in Español. Two person tables kept each other company, still trying to both learn English and Spanish. (Both tables had been made in China, and they only understood Mandarin.) Newspapers kept the tables warm, and entertained visitors with the news when they dared.  Meanwhile the individually wrapped junk food in the vending machine watched the visitors nervously. They always hated whenever one visitor decided to purchase one of them, but no more than they hated being twisted by the coils and cruelly dropped to the dispenser without a thought. The junk food packages didn’t dare contemplate what awaited them on the other side of the glass.

“I’m sorry Mr. Death, but Penny Jacobs isn’t in that room anymore.” Her eyes, brimming with innocence, stared back at his empty ones.

“Then who is?” Mr. Death sighed, smoothing his pale hair back. He could feel in his hands where this headed.

The nurse glanced at the open binder on her desk. “Pam Jacobs.  Completely different person Penny’s family says.”

Mr. Death, or Al, as he preferred to be called, rubbed his face wearily. (Angel O. Death tended to give people the wrong impression.) “You’re absolutely sure?”

The nurse twirled a blonde curl in her hand. “Absolutely.”

“Alright.” She half expected him to sigh in defeat, but he almost looked relieved. “You said there was somebody I should see in room 50?”

She flipped through her notebook, sliding her finger down to the appropriate name. “Yep, that’s the one.”

“Thank you.” As Al left, the nurse swore she saw his shadow linger longer than the others.

Waiting until Angel O. Death vanished around the corner, the nurse headed to “Pam” Jacobs room. The nurse sat in the chair next to the hospital bed and whispered “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but your husband was right.’

Time holds my mother prisoner.

The unknown sits, an owl, on his shoulder.

A a gold pocket watch ticks slowly,

slowly,

slowly, on in his gnarled hand.

I wonder if she even notices the clown

on the other side.

He dances and tells jokes,

but none of us hear the punchline.

The ticking watch drowns him out.

I just came home from the doctor. Walking through the door, I set down my pamphlets about memory loss. My doctor told me it’s important, so hopefully I’ll remember. As I reached the door, I pulled out my keys and tried to remember which one would unlock my house. Here’s a prescription, take it twice a day. The last verse of a song cut off as I turned off the engine. Remember, take it with a full glass of water. Pulling into the driveway, I recalled the pharmacist.

“Current address?”

Staring at her forehead, as if the answer would be written there between the lines, I shook my head.

“Ma’am?”

“Mm?”

“May I verify your address?”

Five–no four, three blind mice. “433 Blue Orchid Street”

I entered the pharmacy, piece of paper in hand. Thank goodness for little papers. Before I began to forget to buy them, I’d keep a pack of sticky notes with me at all times. Before then, sometimes I’d forget to even right things down before I forgot them. Walking out of the doctor’s office, I swore to myself I wouldn’t forget the instructions, my doctor had said they were important.

Dropping my keys on my desk, I remembered that I had forgotten, whatever it was.

She couldn’t have come sooner,

in better condition,

brand new,

mint even.

Like cotton, the nurses wash her once

to see if she shrinks.

We’ll try her on,

to see if she fits.

You’ll all die,

Unless you watch our cast.

Watch our show,

And we’ll do our best to keep the terrorists and the Swine Flu at bay.

(Oh, excuse us, we mean H1N1. We don’t want to offend the swine.)

Drive up our ratings,

And we just might stop the mudslinging,

Or maybe we’ll wallow in the dirty stories just a bit more,

(We want to make more cash for our commercials.)

So, please keep watching,

We want to make you happy

With our depressing news.

Kidney for Sale! Kidney for Sale! Black market kidney for Sale! Costly kidney for sale!

Comes with pot-infected vessles, but from an otherwise healthy owner. Original owner can not guarantee his moral health or mental heath.

Kidney comes complete self-doubt, incrimination, and a lack of ethical boundaries. Buy at own risk (and the risk of others.)

(After Charles Wright)

Lead me away from nightmares

And lead me away from pipe-dreams

That was over my head at night.

Take me away on the morning tide

And guard me with your angel wings

Against sneaker waves and spastic drivers.

Remember me when you report to Heaven,

Michael, God, and my older other.

Tell them not to worry about the fall I had this morning;

The bruise’ll heal soon anyway.