She handed me the plastic bag filled with his personal affects and the memories came flooding back. I was once again sitting waiting for some news but...
This time I was stronger.
This time I knew what questions to ask and how to get answers.
This time I had a jacket to protect me from the freeze of the waiting room; this time I had a book to distract me from the look of concern and worry on the faces of the others who waited.
This time I would not cry.
This time was different because: he wasn't 36 and he wasn't my husband and he didn't die.
This time the nurse came out and said, "Your uncle can go home now, just make sure he rests."
This time was different...
But it brought back all of the memories of the last time.
And now I can' t seem to let it go.
6 comments:
*hugs*
All that unresolved stuff is hard to live with - though great fodder for writing. Sorry you had to relive something so terrible.
I hope this doesn't show up twice. My last comment was stolen by gremlins.
This is a really well written slice. I can feel your pain through your words. Glad to hear your uncle is OK.
Wow, Tisha, this is powerful. What an amazing slice. Your poet's roots are definitely on display here. Thank you for sharing this.
Sigh. Ditto Snowflakes6.
When I was in grad school, one of our favorite pieces of advice to give each other was to begin the midddle--media res--and write on from there.
I can see why this advice was primo #1 after reading your lovely post.
--Elizabeth
http://peninkpaper.blogspot.com/
Oh, I know this feeling, this kind of loss.
You write well, Tisha.
Thank you,
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