Thirty-Nine Pearls
Emma encourages me to speak, but I can only count her pearls. She grabs my listless hand pressing it to her cheek. Trace the creases of my palm with your thumb and I will know it is a performance. Hospital air is uncomfortably crisp. The only demand of sterility is an ever present chill. Only the disclosure of a burning secret can make us warm again. Machines beep louder as my ventilator syncs up with her breathing. Orderlies buzz around, mindful that they must not exceed an appropriate amount of eye contact. Privacy mustn't be darker than the colored tissue paper that dresses it. Diligent cleaners mean you no harm, but they do want to know every inch of the winding road that has left me parked on a gurney . Emma refuses to breath through her mouth lest she weep. Her pearls dance across her heaving chest. Finally, the glint of her front tooth peeks through. Our intimacy is a jet plane soaring above the things of regret and forgiveness. Her lips rake over her teeth as she chokes back spit bubbles. She covers her mouth immediately with both hands. Bouncing shoulders accompanied by a muffled cry shrinks the room. The sink is gone. The trash bins have disappeared. The meal trays are squeezed out of frame. The floor tiles barely register. Her nose runs just on the right side. An attending nurse is kicking herself as she realizes that she must warn Emma about stepping on my oxygen. There are way too many badly placed tubes and sprawling wires, but Emma has 28 neatly strung pearls. After a gentle back rub from the head nurse, composure is restored. The secret dies in the name of social grace. She can not manage the fallout of who we really are and how I have come to this dreadful place. I need her to connect her part of the story to my own. The clock works against visitors. Very few can extend their stay past an hour. Breathing in that frigid headache air turns charity into penance. Tact has vanquished humanity. She gathers her belongings, and turns away to reveal a grand total is 39 pearls.
