call•me•jonah

he lay. catatonic you might think at first, in the hospital room. mouth agape, eyes shut. but he can still understand. he knows whos there. and sometimes he moves his right arm, trying to communicate. his breathing is loud like a snore, dragging air past his tongue. his mouth gets dry as sandpaper so we have to dab it with a damp swab periodically.

everyone takes turns holding his hand. talking to him.
i wanted to tell him about my trip. but i couldnt. when my voice left my mouth it was aimed at the air. i felt foolish. and kept it brief. i wanted to talk to him as if he was listening. but it just didnt seem like he was. didnt seem like he was in there at all. but he was. he is. hes holding on longer than they thought he would. yet the funeral is scheduled for tuesday...

is it sad that everyone has to die? that someday this skin and muscle and bone will rebel against our wills. and trap us, suffocate our conscious and squeeze out our life.

my grandmother is dying in a different way. her mind is rebeling. and slowly she's forgotten most of the things she held dear. like the names of her grandchildren and the faces of her daughters. Aunt Becky soothed her sobs with the promise of heaven. she mumbles to herself. like she's doing a math problem in her head. she told me as i sat there silently holding his hand. 'its ok, he's going to heaven.' she assured me. i smiled and nodded. my grandmother is such a sweet child.

he always faced his death straight on. i remember him joking with me about it three years ago at the funeral of my mothers mom. 'i'll be the next one to go,' he said with a wink and a smile. i smiled uncomfortably, unable to laugh at death the way he did. holding onto conditioned shame. a little embarassed to be alive and young. my grandmother reprimanded him playfully. the idea of death didnt seem to bother him. i guess he was helping to prepare me. nobody expected it. the massive bleeding in the brain.

"he just wanted to hold his hand." she bit off the last word to hold back tears.

i wonder what its like to live ever closer to death. an old friend had come. he held tightly to grandfather's hand. Two worn, gnarled hands. expressing all the love he could not speak. his sunglasses kept his tears private.

i don't know what to do or think at times like this.