St Rene Goupil Has Nothing to Do With This
I used to bring you flowers to brighten up your place. Stepping into your room was like stepping into your illness; the off-white walls were those of your offbeat heart, holding plastic tubes and disinfectant. The stench of the disease lingered underneath. I was scolded once for bring in a bouquet with a bouquet. All the flowers did was die faster than you, so I stopped bringing them.
I started bringing you clothes, instead -- you were my flower, once upon a time. The nurses laughed coquettishly when I carried your dresses and blouses in black paper bags, telling me how thoughtful I was, telling each other how caring I was, but you never wore the dresses. You preferred your paper gown to silky or sporty or springtime skirts. Was it because you'd feel bad, wearing those clothes around those nurses? With the state you were in, I imagined that they would fill out your tops and bottoms better than you. We never fought about that, but it felt like we had, so I stopped bringing you clothes, too.
I brought you paperbacks you never picked up, tapes you didn't watch, and food you never ate. I took my lunches in the restaurant on the second floor, never with company other than the thought of you: your mask of a face over my shoulder. Your cold, shaking hand over my eyes. I stopped having lunch.
I brought you compliments of the weight you lost and you almost cried, I saw. I brought you a nurse to talk to and you did cry. From then on, you cried -- not with saline or sobs, but with your eyes. I saw that, too. I brought you water, I brought you earrings, and you lay in your bed crying in that silent and sightless way. The drip of the IV and the beep of your machines were the monotone tune of your tears. I hated that room. Like you and your crying, I hated so many things.
When I tucked you in, you stopped crying, and I started eating lunch again.