This time yesterday
This time yesterday, she was here. This time yesterday, she was still in the bed, still to my right. The bed is empty now, but still it hums a low tune, a timbre from the energy it receives from the wall. I can’t bring myself to unplug this energy, this timbre. I want it here tonight, still with me.
This time yesterday, I played Debussy. I didn’t care what time it was, about the neighbors as she did always. This time yesterday it was time for Debussy.
This time yesterday, I crawled over the rails and into that bed. I lied there with her, hugged her, stroked her arm, her hair, and held her hand. I told her I loved her, and that she would be home. Told her she would be seeing Fillow, and Rocky, and Dziadzia. And they would be dancing. So just rest, just sleep. I told her I was happy, so happy she was mine.
No more oxygen, no more medicine. This time yesterday I was still giving it and now it just sits here, listening to the timbre also. The cups that held the water sit here, the straws sit here, the tissues, the bed, we just sit here.
Middle of the deep night now, we sit here.
Her painted flowers.
Her poems. Her shirts. Her perfumes. Her paper butterflies. Her window. We sit here.
In the window now, to my left, a deep dark blue. And some clouds up there too. They say a hurricane is out there somewhere, coming soon, yes a hurricane — to L.A.
They say it will slow, will split, will steady. It will not still be a hurricane when it gets here, but will be hours and hours of rains, rains she would have loved and listened to.
Maybe the rains will erase the tune, this timbre. Maybe I’ll see her there, hear her there in the rain, just as I see and hear her now everywhere. Yes, maybe soon she’ll be the rain.
This time yesterday, still to my right. I fell asleep, and she did too.
