My heart is aching. My stomach is about to explode.. or implode.. or something. I think my stomach is going to explode out of my heart or out of my throat. It's just going to poof.
I glance into the mirror and I can see you, and even though you're sleeping, I know your pain. I know you're in pain. I saw the X-Ray.
I'm shuddering. I'm wearing my grandfather's wedding ring. The one you never take off. When he died, they gave it to you. And when you're sick, you give it to me. And you're really sick. You're hurt. I'm hurt.
It's so eerie, wearing this ring. It's surreal. All at once, I'm eating his strawberry ice cream and running around. He always said I'd be the first girl in the family to break a bone, and I was. But he never saw that.
And here is his little girl, my Lori, with a broken bone. A broken humerus. You fell down a flight of stairs that I knew were bad. I should have been more persistent about making you go the other way with us. With me and Maggie. This really sucks.
When we got out of the hospital and were waiting for the taxi, you asked me to light your cigarette because you couldn't mobilize your arm. I did it for you, but hated every minute of it. You and your gimp arm, smoking with your left. It looks so awkward. Probably because it is. I hate smoking. And when I was lighting it for you, I tasted it. The chemicals and tar; I could feel it staining my teeth.
But why should I care? You need this, it comforts you. Just like it comforted my mother.
What, now, will comfort me?
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