Danny
Mom died of COVID.
Two months now. A
vent. Enough wires to scare a small child. Nurse called me: It’s her time.
Cried into our cell-phone cameras. FaceTimed her a goodbye. Couldn’t go into
Alta Bates. Too risky.
Two months on. Standing
in line at Café Aquatica. Sits amidst what passes for central Jenner. Seventy-seven-point-one
miles north of where she died. Less than two tranquil hours along the winding
lane she’ll never again see.
Grief is neither
linear nor logical. Like most things, it makes no goddamned sense.
No comments:
Post a Comment