I have officially dubbed 2002 the Year of Bad Timing. (Apologies to those two couples I adore whose weddings happen this year. It’s not your fault.)
My grandmother is not doing well at all, in the hospital and on a respirator with 100% oxygen and her vital signs still don’t look good. My father has not recuperated enough to travel, and my uncle – who has been a gem in caring for my grandmother since my grandfather died in ‘99 – feels helpless, ambivalent about what an outcome that will probably be decided for all of us in a few days.
Meanwhile, I am here, trying hard to help out my dad and stepmom. I cooked my specialty tonight, honey-ginger chicken, with petite peas and crescent rolls on the side. They really enjoyed the meal, not just for the taste but for the novelty of having someone else cook for them. I am happy to be useful.
I hope to get to see my dear friend Pas before I (have to) leave here again. Being back here evokes this dreamy, low-level infection of nostalgia; I have a fever with the memories of who I was. Some parts of me want to be her again, if only for a cigarette, and maybe a kiss or two. Perhaps both. But she’d mind sharing them with me, so I’ll leave her alone. For now.