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He served me a café con leche in a glass. It was delicious but my kidneys hurt. They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.
I know who I am but it’s hard in this zone of no identity. I am dynamic, I am an advocate, I will fight. I said this but no one was listening. So I had to.
Tomorrow I will have an ultrasound but I am not pregnant. I am like one of those trees that can’t grow outside of its’ native land.
I am running down my savings on last minute deals. I feel like this Spanish interlude has been a distraction.
The questions, who am I, what is my purpose, how can I manage to be alone…? They still elude me. Even here. And I feel like I have to go back to the beginning to get the answers.
It’s a mean town. And I do care. Sometimes too much.
I met a man with a baby named Mario. He was 10 days old. The baby, that is.
His mother had a worried look, a quiet, small frown that spoke trepidation. I wondered if it was because of our emergency room setting, or something deeper. He smiled at me, she looked away, preoccupied and inside herself.
He touched her hip, swollen from the birth. She smiled and sat down, waiting. Mario cried in his little, baby way. She offered him what she could, although that wasn’t much. Her breast was full and her nipples distended, Dad continued with his rugged optimism - roughly translated as “hey, champ” and “be good to your mom, kiddo.”
And then they called my name. You don’t have a kidney infection. Also, you speak Spanish well. What a good little foreigner. I ate something with eggs and potato, downed my coffee to feel something warm inside. I left through a different exit, shivered in the cold autumn air, and wandered before finally going home.
I know who I am but it’s hard in this zone of no identity. I am dynamic, I am an advocate, I will fight. I said this but no one was listening. So I had to.
Tomorrow I will have an ultrasound but I am not pregnant. I am like one of those trees that can’t grow outside of its’ native land.
I am running down my savings on last minute deals. I feel like this Spanish interlude has been a distraction.
The questions, who am I, what is my purpose, how can I manage to be alone…? They still elude me. Even here. And I feel like I have to go back to the beginning to get the answers.
It’s a mean town. And I do care. Sometimes too much.
I met a man with a baby named Mario. He was 10 days old. The baby, that is.
His mother had a worried look, a quiet, small frown that spoke trepidation. I wondered if it was because of our emergency room setting, or something deeper. He smiled at me, she looked away, preoccupied and inside herself.
He touched her hip, swollen from the birth. She smiled and sat down, waiting. Mario cried in his little, baby way. She offered him what she could, although that wasn’t much. Her breast was full and her nipples distended, Dad continued with his rugged optimism - roughly translated as “hey, champ” and “be good to your mom, kiddo.”
And then they called my name. You don’t have a kidney infection. Also, you speak Spanish well. What a good little foreigner. I ate something with eggs and potato, downed my coffee to feel something warm inside. I left through a different exit, shivered in the cold autumn air, and wandered before finally going home.