Friday, October 22, 2004

Just get me home

I've taken this route home before. In the dark. With the lights along the highway acting as makeshift stars, I drove a car just like this one. An older model, but the smell on the cushions was exactly the same. And there was a hand clutching mine, too. Just like now.

I've wanted to cry on this road before, while driving home after the battles that came after long, lonely waits, but today's reasons are altogether different. There is no shadow here, I'm very different from those days. Yet at the core I'm a carbon copy of the past. I'm the constant that never changed despite changing. Like the waves coming and going while the coastline remains exactly where it's always been.

I've smelled this hospital before. I've seen these beds. The tiny bathrooms in the outpatients' rooms. The visitors' chairs with bland-colored plastic. Off-white walls, yellowed sheets, barely-there blue on the trim, and the sense of not really being anywhere at that particular point in time.

The hunger, the pain, the disease… all the reasons I hate hospitals. The silent nights broken only by the rushing of the staff in the hallway, running over to a room to give life again before it is too late. Before it is too late.

And the pain. The disease. And most of all, the good byes.

I've taken this road home before. And it seems that just when you're so far from ever going down it again, you're repeating yourself and stepping on the very footprints you have previously made. And you sole digs deeper into the ground every time you do this, because it seems that every time you come back around you have more weight to carry on your shoulders.