I’m a witness. It lingers. And I want to hold it.
He leans over to give her a kiss. She touches his face and asks, “How are you?”
An image I’ve seen again and again. Memory. I follow. Words appear and disappear. Some survive the backspace, the cut and paste. Others don’t.
I see them reflected in the nurse’s eyes that well up as she tells the story of her family. She looks on with envy
as they join us.
My thoughts diverge.
Medicines, special diets, monitor and maintain. Be vigilant. The job is complex. Frightening.They refuse to give in.
I change the tense. The sequence. The point of view.
Perhaps a dip to the past;
a closer look at the present.
They sit reading. The view from the backyard spills into the living room. Mom reads aloud; makes a joke, talks politics. Dad continues to read. This is how it’s always gone. For them. It’s impossible to imagine anything else.
What was said?
What did I see?
A bird lit on the wire. Mom grabs her bird book.
“It must be a scrub jay. Such a lowly name for such a lovely bird. Oh look another! See it on the wire above? They have made our garden their home. I could sit here any watch them all day.”
Dad gets up to check on something in the bedroom.
Ah yes. Or no. Does this fit?
Not quite.
Delete. Rearrange.
In the end, I hold on to a tiny bit of time.
Their lives go on. Fears quiet with the simple peace within.
I write to capture the moment; to look back. As I do with the pictures in my hallway of times long ago, but so clear in my memory of what matters. I write to hold on. Thank you, Two Writing Teachers for the March Slice of Life Challenge. We write, holding on together. Read more slices here.
To Read To Write To Be 