Oriela Pt. 3

***

Five minutes passed, and I had finally mustered up the spirit to call my sister. I knew she was on her way to the hospital anyway, and didn’t want her to get there for nothing. Also, I knew I’d never be able to tell her the news to her face.

She answered on the second ring: “I’m around the corner. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

“Okay,” I said and paused for a moment, “but she’s dead.”

Not much was said after that. I believe she dropped her phone because the call never got disconnected. Two minutes later she was in front of the hospital, weeping into the arms of her boyfriend. The sight of her crying moved me, but not to the expected tears which have still yet to form.

I wasn’t as sad as one in my position should have been. The woman who had birthed me was no longer alive and I patiently awaited the sting of that fact to reveal itself to me. During that time, my philosophy of death was one of nonchalance. I was aware that people died and that there was nothing on could do to avoid it. But death had hit home this time and I wondered if such a philosophy was enough to comfort me. It had t be, for I stood there strongly as my sister crumbled.

The year after she died, I did what was expected of me. I went out and got a tattoo in her remembrance–a quote that was scribbled onto a notebook we found in her apartment. I began smoking the brand of cigarettes she used to and wore the rosary beads she gave me. Blog posts regarding how much I missed her were written (although rarely posted) and I would often times find myself staring blankly at her urn. Her birthday came and went on November 9th, 2010, and I was only reminded of it via a Facebook status my sister threw up for the world to see. How could I forget such a thing? What was wrong with me?

There are moments–fleeting moments–when memories of her are forced upon me. If I hear a piece of gum popped repeatedly, I’m involuntarily transported to the pseudo-intimate act of being nested between my mother’s thighs as she braids my hair. She’d weave strands of my hair rhythmically–one strand under the other–while popping the Winter Fresh gum she was so fond of in unison. She’s rough about it, or perhaps I’m too sensitive. I wriggle beneath her forceful strokes, trying to position myself away from the pain. Resistance is met with an impatient pop to the head with a comb, brush, or a heavy hand. I’m instructed to ‘sit still’ and my head is maneuvered in a position which is comfortable to her, yet bends my neck in such a way which causes me to squirm for my young life. Other than her instructions, she has few words for me. The only sound is the symphony of hair braiding. Over. Pop. Under. Pop. “Sit. Still.” Pop. Pop. Under.

A single whiff of Elizabeth Taylor’s ‘White Diamonds’ is enough to lead me to moments which I’ve let fester within their proverbial bottle. It’s the only perfume she would ever wear and I never thought it suited her. The floral scent would trail after her as she returned in the evenings. I followed its traces one day into the closet where she had been hiding. The White Diamond was oddly mixed with a whiff of something not readily recognized. Her head whipped around to face me and her eyes flashed with chagrin. I was swiftly pushed out of the closet, the door was slammed, and I remained on her bedroom floor unable to remove myself from it. The translucent pipe was still fixed to her mouth as she re-opened the door and stepped over me. She exited the room with the once sweet scent now defiled and trailing behind her.

The initial pronouncement of my mother’s death didn’t bring tears to my eyes due to a heavy heart. I know this now, but back then I had lied and deemed myself strong and wise when it came to death and its aftershock. Many feelings were swept under the rug when she passed, and my one regret remains our inability to smooth out the creases in our relationship. When the cancer had reduced her to a woman who wheezed disappointments of a life wasted and coughed up repentance, I stood by her clutching her calloused hand. her eyes were distant and searching to recognize me as she struggled with her inability to produce a single word. I wanted to leave her there, walk out the door and come back another day with one of my siblings who would know what to do. A mountain of guilt loomed in the doorway, making escape impossible.

It’s an odd thing to admit, but I feel more for my mother now that I ever had previously. I look at the picture of her often. She’s young and seemingly happy, a part of her which remained elusive in real life. She wasn’t necessarily an angry person, but more confused on how life should be led. Her eyes often reflected this frustration and this was apparent in her actions, yet in this photo she seems certain of what she’s doing–certain of things which have perhaps eluded her before.

I talk to the photo. I tell her things I was afraid to tell her during her mothering years–when she was harsh and bitter towards me as though my presence offended her. I’m on the path of forgiving her. Sometimes I feel that her death was necessary. I would still se simmering in hatred had she not passed, and my heart would be naught, save an organ that pumps blood where it should.

Oriela Pt. 2

***

“May I help you?” a voice said from behind me.

“Yes,” I said to the nurse in the blue scrubs, “I’m looking for my mother, Janna Allen. She was in this room yesterday, I think.” Her eyebrow raised in confusion and her mouth opened to say something. I quickly interrupted her, correcting my mistake: “Janna Russell, I mean. I always forget she’s married.”

“Yes, well. . . I’m sorry but. . . you’re mother, well. . . she passed yesterday.”

“Oh,” I said, “thank you.”

I quickly walked out of critical care and into the elevator lobby. I feel into a chair adjacent to the vending machines and momentarily thought about purchasing a Snickers bar. Before I could check to see if I had enough money to actually buy the snack, the nurse came gliding into the lobby. She was young–I gaged her age as being somewhere between 22 and 25–but she was kind. She stood in front of me and asked if there was anyone I would like for her to call. I declined the offer, got to my feet, and anxiously awaited the elevator’s arrival. She waiting with me in silence, and when the elevator came, I rushed inside it, happy to be separated from unwanted sympathy.

The weather that day called only for a leather jacket and a light scarf. I had left my scarf at hime along with the proper reaction to the present situation. I walked out of the hospital expecting the death-in-a-family chill to cause my teeth to chatter, yet the sun still beamed happily. I had also expected it to start raining, as is nature’s custom when the Grim Reaper has hacked away at someone.

Standing there with my phone in my hand, I was aware that calls would have to be made sooner or later. The news would have to be spread. Sooner seemed too abrupt while later seemed a little insensitive. I still opted for later and chose to watch people enter and exit the sullied revolving doors. There were many handprints on the glass. Some larger than others; some more defined and others less visible. I wondered if my hand had left a prominent print. Or would it fade under the influence of the others? If that were to be the case, how would people know that I had been there. She was there and I was visiting her; there was no doubt that my hand had touched that glass numerous times. Those doors had revolved around my thought enough to dizzy me to the matter in front of me. Perhaps I had gotten stuck within them against my own will. or perhaps I was just making some more excuses.

Some people would enter the hospital confident–happy, even-while others would enter with doom weighing down their shoulders,  their eyes glued on the floor. The hospital has that kind of power. Producing heaven and hell within its walls on a daily basis If I can I steer clear from them, their shadows too. Rare energy emits from them–a combination of defeat and hope. In a cemetery there is only defeat and in a church there is hope. Yet hospitals have managed to fuse these two and create an uneasy feeling which looms within every square inch of the establishment. It sets my heart racing and makes my skin itch. They’re buildings which never receive much praise from me.

I had entered that building confident, yet left confused about my inability to produce a tear.

***

Oreila Pt. 1

For the third year in a row, I’ve forgotten her birthday. Two years ago I beat myself up about it, but this year I chose to shrug it off. I briefly thought about buying flowers and putting them next to her urn–maybe lighting some candles and saying some prayers–yet that thought was overthrown by selfish ones of not having enough gas to go purchase them. I did light the candles, however, and positioned them around the one picture of her that I possess. The picture used to hang on the wall above my bed, yet I moved it one inebriated night after I slammed my door too passionately and it fell. It landed softly onto one of my many pillows, but I deemed it threatening to have such an object hanging so haphazardly over where I lay my head. Now the picture dwells atop a rickety computer stand purchased from the regrettable factories of Ikea.

My mother and I said our goodbyes back in 2009. Rather, she said nothing, and during her service we all murmured things we were unable to previously tell her. She was unfamiliar to me that day. I glanced in the casket, expecting to see my on-again-off-again mother, but instead was greeted by a face void of recognition. My siblings sat in the front row, clutching one another and filling the room with sobs and heart-wrenching wails; I took a seat a few rows away from them. A priest none of us were acquainted with led the service with a tone of indifference. His words were short and quickly forgotten–I wondered how many funerals he had performed before hers.

On November 29th, I had shuffled into the hospital to visit her. (Richmond University was still being called St. Vincents back in that year, yet is still more commonly known amongst the residents of Staten Island as “St. Victims”.) My mother chose to be treated at St. Vincents due to her years of dedicated work as a nurse and had unwavering faith in the staff. The old elevator creaked its way up to critical care, stopped at her floor, and the doors took a minute too long to open. Panic began to bubble up within me as the thought of being trapped in an elevator leaned across the line separating it from reality. I went to push the emergency call button, but the door opened slowly, and I ran out into the elevator lobby,t hen into the hallway of critical care.

I dragged myself into the room where she was being housed and saw a tray of food at the foot of her bed. Good, she’s able to eat without that tube now. My steps became jovial as I continued past the bathroom, but I came to a stop once I got close enough to see that my mother was not ring where she had been the previous day. I kicked myself for being so forgetful, apologized for intruding on the other patient’s visitation, and went out into hallway, then into the next room. She wasn’t in that on either. I peeked into another room and then another, until I had exhausted the possibilities. I stood in front of the first doorway I walked into, staring at the room number quite confused.

***

There’s Only Lint.

My pockets are almost always empty. I shuffle down streets and watch as others dig deeply into theirs and pull out alluring anecdotes, vignettes made of gold, and hearsay from days passed.  It amazes me how there’s always something. How they never seem to run out of things to produce. How their pockets remain full of this and that.

There have been times when I forgotten the rare occasion of having a tidbit tucked in my back pocket. I’d feel it’s bulge when a seat was taken, making the act uneven and disagreeable. Confused, I’d fish it out and stare at it. In my eyes it’d be beautiful. Sultry. Formidable. Vital. Perhaps too vital. Is this something I’d dare put on the table for all to see?

Surely no one wants to see it. Surely they wouldn’t understand.

Back into the pocket it goes until I’m able to get it safely into my abode. I put it in with the others and pray that it doesn’t fester. That it doesn’t go unnoticed and forgotten. That one day I’ll share it and no one will laugh.

I don’t like to to walk with extra weight, so my pockets are emptied on a daily basis. That, and I’d be humiliated if a certain something were to fall out without my knowledge and someone would pick it up. Or if someone were to  haphazardly step on it because they were too busy searching their own pockets for something new to present. It would fracture under the weight of their nonchalance and simultaneously, knots would form in my throat. I’d mourn its loss for days and walk around in a haze of disbelief. It’s too risky a situation for me.

I’m possessive.

I Could Die At Any Moment, But I Doubt It

That can be read as arrogance, but no, I don’t feel as though I have the ability to cheat death. I’m aware that no matter how many times I change my path, death with always be at the end of it, waiting with its skeletal frame positioned in an eager embrace. I wholly embody this fact, and feel no displeasure embodying it. Yet, as of late, there’s a certain feeling that I’m unable to shake. It’s slight, still, yet warms me in an odd way that unfortunately I cannot (yet) describe. But it boils down to this really: With it’s high possibility, I’ve started to feel that if I’m not dead yet, there’s something that I must do or have yet to finish.

People are so frightened of death. No one wants to kick the bucket when they don’t know what’s inside it. What if it tips over and nothing spills out? What if fire spills out? It’s the unknown which keeps some from thinking about it. Yet quite often, I’m left with my chin cupped in my hands–my prominent thinking pose–as I allow my thoughts to run rampant on ideas which remain untouched by the majority. In my mind, it’s not a frightening thing to think about. The one thing that will be uneasy is the pain factor (if there is any pain) but after that hurdle is jumped there’s endless possibilities.

For me it doesn’t seem to quite make much sense that we live these lives and once death knocks on our doors, we answer and everything becomes obsolete. We’re constantly learning, feeling, experiencing, exploring, creating, etc., and are expected to believe that this is it. No, life is longer than that. It’s greater than that. Why would such a thing end? It would seem mighty unfair that it would end, suddenly, and nothing would occur afterwards. Not so much unfair, but rather more… unlikely. For if that were to be the way this works, what’s the point of now? What’s the point of later?

We’re told to live for today because tomorrow isn’t promised and while that statement is true, I’m still left feeling that there’s more to it than just that. Perhaps a certain lesson needs to be learned. Maybe missions need to be completed. I can’t really say for sure, I’m just thinking out loud here.

Broken Record

Mornings begin somewhere within 5am. The alarm cuts through the silence with its demanding tones. It’s persistent as ever, and any effort to ignore it goes defeated. Thoughts are hazy at that hour–trying to make myself somewhat presentable is a task. Pants are pulled on sleepily; a sweater is thrown on haphazardly, and hair is manipulated to appear decent.

The actions of my mornings from Monday through Friday are routine. I awaken to a reality that’s becoming mundane. Again and again I maneuver in the same motions. My waking thought is always the same, and usually begins with “I don’t.” But I do, and have been doing for quite some time now. Mindlessly I’m up and out–speaking to those who don’t deserve my words; those who can’t understand my words, and those who ignore my words.

My blood has the tendency to boil more frequently than I care to admit. Headaches advance at an alarming rate. Faith in humanity is something that I can no longer say I possess. Rather, it’s something that has begun to dwindle beneath brain melting gossip, complaints, acts of superiority, acts of stupidity, laziness, the bliss of ignorance, and power struggles.

Breaths are only taken when bowels need to be emptied–or pretend to be. The question ‘Why?’ surfaces and remains unanswered. Time ticks at it’s slowest whilst under the watchful eyes of the impatient and aggravated. Internally, I scream until my soul runs out of air, and possibly even after that. Until it’s sputtering up pieces of itself in an attempt to have someone, anyone, hear it bawling.

Yet no one ever does. I ignore it myself and continue to pretend as though all is going according to plan. But I know that a wrong step has been taken. Somewhere along the lines I’ve stopped paying attention. Fear creeps up and glues me to a single spot. Forces me to resume without questioning–without fighting.

I’m awaiting the day of my explosion. I mark my calendar as the weeks go by and nothing has happened. I’m waiting yet doing nothing to prevent it. Really, I’m waiting for the day when I’m able to rally up enough moxie to light my own fuse.