My mother decided to take my fathers’

Appointment, at the holistic doctors office

 

Five days after he died. It was hard to get

In to see him- months even, and my

 

Fathers’ disease still hung around the air

Like we could catch it, and without life

 

Insurance until the 30th

She was worried about things like “what if I died

 

Too?” Imagine- a time where she had the

Luxury to worry about her own flesh.

 

Not the way we imagined it.

When she wasn’t trying to squeeze

Someone’s palm hard enough to wring out

 

The pain they had inside them,

As if it could be transferred, rug to hand, the shock

 

Like flint to rock, when two things cannot

Be at once and so they fight for space

 

Sending up big fiery sparks

Like how you can be everywhere-

 

Your coffee cup, your rain jacket

Yet nowhere to be found.

 

“This is great that you’re doing this”

I told her. She grimaced, sucked in her

 

Cheeks and turned her mouth upwards

In a breathless gauze covered smile.

 

They will see her, and help her, I thought.

The old trick. We could push our sadness all

 

The way out to the limit until they get swept

In by savior, white light, white coat.

 

Let them take care of this. Let them figure this out

Like I could pawn off my fear and sell it

 

To Blue Cross, to the hospital that wouldn’t waive the 5

Dollar parking garage charge when I couldn’t pay

 

It. So they pointed me the way to the bus-

You cost too much. Let somebody else take this.

 

Had we given my father away like that? I didn’t think much

Of humanity when I walked away from the lot that night.

 

The kids don’t talk back anymore. The

Best I can do is make the house warm

 

For her when she comes home. Put on the

Noise, the chatter of wine glasses against

 

The counter. These are the sounds I would like to

Remember like laughter and stomping

 

Off shoes when we came in. My sister animated in a story

The sound of the leather chair stretching as he would lean

Forwards to hear what she was saying.

 

Put on the TV, the radio,

My shoes are louder now and stand on heels that

Talk

Across

Floors

 

Anything to make me move faster from the quiet

That makes us hear something cracking inside us

Like the sound that kindness makes when it gives you a

 

Small space to rest in

---

Alexandra Karambelas is a 24-year-old creative writer based out of Burlington Vermont. She has been spending her time fighting the political revolution while serving overpriced Chinese food at P.F. Changs.