I Remember
I walked to the pay phone in the hallway. Everything was green, the walls, the floor, a dull green to match the mood. I picked up the phone and dropped my coin. I dialed the familiar number of the church. My call interrupted the merriment of an Afterglow, a time of fellowship after a Sunday evening service. Pastor Calloway soon said “hello.” I said, “my father is dead.” He said, “I’ll be right there.” We stood in the hall. I don’t remember for sure who was there. I know I was there. I think my husband was there, but then he might have been with our son. I think my brother was there, perhaps his wife or one of his boys. Marta, the nurse my mother loved was probably there. We waited as the body was disconnected from the tubes and wires. A day before a young doctor knelt by his urine bag begging for it to fill with yellow liquid. That liquid was like gold. It meant my dad would ...