From Eileen’s Poem “Kurt”
I took her first line and riffed off it:
The weekend you died was really a big deal for both of us. I had to wake her to tell her what happened. My cousin called from California to explain. The conversation had been a weird one. It sounded like the mouthpiece of his phone was wrapped in cheese cloth. His voice was a shaking whisper. I wondered if his throat felt tight.
I felt like he was so far away. The sound quality of the call was that bad. It reminded me of when I used to read my father’s letters and imagine how far away he lived. I could never paint an accurate picture because I could barely comprehend what “all the way around the world” meant. It felt like that. That far away.
I wondered if my cousin was staring at a “No Cell Phones Allowed” sign while he spoke to me.
He sat in a waiting room at the hospital while he told us about you. He was done waiting. He said everyone was there in your small hospital room. I’m sure our family exceeded the number of guests allowed (fire safety).
I walked into my dark living room in Brooklyn after I hung up the phone. We had turned off all the lights because we needed sleep. It was probably only 6pm, but it was winter. The 40 hours prior had been spent unnaturally awake: breathing, worrying, wondering what to do. I hadn’t bitten my nails in a long time.
I told my brother first because I needed him to help me tell her. I didn’t know how to say it. That was the first time in my life I felt old. Maybe it was seeing my mother so child-like, fragile in her tears and stubborn feelings. “No no no no no,” she said. “No no no no no no.”
(akr)
