At a social event, the Mariner and I found ourselves huddled with a man we had just met, talking in shorthand about the moments where nothing mattered except holding the hand of the person you loved.
This man was holding his woman's hand a lot these days. There wasn't much to say except a couple of yes's and fierce nodding. In honor of the only moments that matter...
Originally posted August 6, 2013
I recognized the number of the four missed calls right away. It was the ER.
Rushing through dark, summer streets was like listening to a familiar song sung by someone new. Even if it was only a dog bite on the arm and the dog had had its shots, having to step back into old space that had been the many cracks of a broken heart required a calm that wasn't there anymore.
The place was packed. And the night, just like all those past nights, began.
"We got 160 patients so we're a little behind."
"Maxwell! Good news! You don't have an infection."
"Can anyone spare a blanket, miss could I have a blanket oh god bless you..."
"No, it's not broken."
"Sir, it's broken."
"No, it's not broken."
"Where are my Cantonese, Mandarin speakers?"
"I had him just a minute ago and I lost him."
"Martha? Martha? Is Martha here? Are you Martha? No?"
"Usually, Monday is the busy day, everybody in for their work notes. Monday and Tuesday were very quiet this week and I thought, uh oh the storm is coming."
"Oh they have people much worse than me. They just intubated someone over there a few minutes ago."
"Do you want some chocolate?"
"They were shooting nails at each other, I asked them why were you shooting nails at each other?"
"I stopped telling my parents what I see because then they say, this is what you went to school for?"
"Can I have a glass a water, miss can you spare a glass of water oh god bless you..." ** Related Posts:
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.