The Dead Hospital Rooms, My Mom

I often find myself in the hospital room. I stand next to the bed where my dead mother is resting. This happens many, many times at indecipherable periods. I am looking out the window. It is June 14, meaning I am nearly 17.5 years old. I am staring at the white blinds. They are slanted open. I look through countless strips of plastic. I am looking at the sky.

The sky is blue. The sky is above the top of the concrete roof. It is on the fifth floor of the other wing of The Hospital. It is blue. It's that clear, clean, polished blue. The blue that only happens for a little bit of time. It seems on days with a slight breeze. It occurs on days with little pollution. Danny and I left the trailer in San Jose. Danny Lee Clark Junior (he's dead now, too) and I went after the call came. It was around 7:30 a.m. It was around 9:30. It wasn't yet 10:00. The light would be less clear at 10:00 and start to look hot. And it was, after all, June. June 14th. 1990. I look at my mother. I look at her. She looks peaceful. I'd never seen her look so peaceful. Ever. The bandage wrapped around the top of her head was neat clean, and white. It only covered the top of her eyebrows. I would not--did not--think about the bloody wound hiding beneath the clean, white dressing. I realized that I'd never seen her face so smooth, the lines around her eyes were softer. Everything about her makes me think that she was finally at peace.