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a lovely memory floated,
ghostlike.
The receptionist told us Lince was in ICU
and asked if we were relatives.
I’d seen enough soap operas to know
to nod an affirmative answer.
Adam played along.
I’m her brother and this is …
I held my breath
… my fiancé.
The lady didn’t even blink behind her thick
gray lenses. She directed us to
the elevators. We got off
on the 7th floor. A nurse said
we’d missed visiting hours,
but since we were relatives
she’d let us poke in
through the door.
Intensive care is not a private place,
big windows allowed unobstructed
hallway-to-room views.
It was a sea of white.
Uniforms. Sheets. Curtains.
Floors and walls.
Why did that feel comforting?
Lince Floated
in that white water world,
Guinivere upon the River Styx,
tubes intruding wrists and nose,
liquid-filled lifelines.
