Alone [manxman]

one:: when the present creeps up on you.

COLLEGE IS KICKING MY ASS SO COMMENT COMMENT COMMENT

Hell N Back by Bakar

ONE: when the present creeps up on you.

I was sure that Hell sounded distinctly of heart monitors and white noise.

Anticipation had to be my least favorite state of being, that and apprehension, dread would always creep in in those moments, worry folding itself in. That following Sunday, both lingered in the room, silently, looming over the bodies that lay.

I stood by the window, watching my younger brother as he laid his curly head atop crisp hospital sheets.

Something about watching him felt so imposing; Peter sat in a plush navy chair, it probably the most comfortable thing in the room but nothing in his posture alluded to that. Despite being slouched over, he was rigid, eyes narrowed in on our Abuelita.

Her dainty, wrinkled hand still enveloped in his.

And it felt all too personal, so morose, it scared me how recluse he'd been.

Her nails were painted, that same cherry red she religiously wore, it chipped over from shaky application.

Back when my life consisted of taking a day at a time, days I wasn't filming, I'd visit her. The nurse that frequented would be on her way out, offering a smile, Abuelita would make a snide comment about how Miss Nancy had a big fancy degree but couldn't warm tea to an appropriate temperature.

She was always so chastising in that way, in small quips but she was old and you couldn't be mad at her for any judgement.

And Nancy would laugh it off, promising that she'd make it hotter next time. I'd sink down into the couch beside her, her tiny feet kicked up in the coffee table, and we'd watch telenovelas.

She was bordering 90 and she was sick but her energy rivaled mine... often, it was hard to keep up. Something akin to Soledad constantly governing screen time, she'd tell me old life stories as I painted her nails only stopping to fall back into her favorite show.

She reminisced over the simple life, being a young girl, a dancer in the 50s, meeting Abuelo and him becoming her everything. She go on about the hours she'd spend at the beauty shop before their dates, her memories never faded.

Describing it down to the smell, she reminisced about Bernarda and what's her name, Car-Carmela— no entiendo— es Carmen. Carmen. She would roll her r's a bit too much then, spacing out the word and dragging it out in between her pointer and index. Car-mela, pfft— her lips upturned at the prosperity— the audacity that someone was actually named Carmela.

I was sure Carmela had a crush on Abuelo, at least by the way she sneered. Abuelita would then admire her nails, shake her head, and tell me that a man couldn't be kept unless he wanted to be.

How he loved her, she'd emphasize, so passionately. How even if a curl was out of place, still caught in a roller when he walked in a bit too early, he'd think she was perfect.

Their love story was so spontaneous, true soulmates, that much was obvious, her existence was half of his.

And she was content that way, marrying a week after meeting, and conceiving my mother years later.

I envied her sometimes, how fondly she spoke of things despite how much life had thrown at her. From migrating to the US in the 70s and being forced to stay put after border barriers, not attending her own mother's funeral.

How she didn't regret a single thing because she didn't have the time to. And she was right.

And she made something of herself.