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Show would spin me, my head only inches from the ground, all the time laughing. Or was it crying? Ankles burning, burning, burning where his hands held me, sometimes bumping the ground, scared, and always relieved when it was done. Tears on my cheeks, a smile on my face, again, again, I would beg because if I didn't my brothers would get a turn and I would lose the hold of my father. The test is cancelled. One day my father comes to visit me in the hospital. His presence by my bed is unusual in and of itself, let alone the fact that he is here without my mother. Most days he works long hours, and when he is not working he often takes care of my brothers so that my mom can visit me. But today he has come alone. We are both awkward. My father doesn't know the protocol, where to sit, what to do when the nurses come in to take my temperature, whether or not I am allowed to leave my bed. And he has brought no projects, no bag of crafts, not even a game. I am angry that he does not know how to act. Angry that he has come in place of, into the place of, my mother who rubs my face and makes octopuses out of yellow yarn with me while the afternoon sun sinks down the walls of the hospital room, and angry that he does not notice the girl in the cast has somehow left before me even though she cannot walk. Where's mom? I ask before he even has time to say hello. I peer around his I outstretched hands, listening for her laughter in the hall. But she is not there. She's home with your brothers. I came to see you today instead. Maybe we can go for a walk. 83 |
