Rosetta

Doris sat in the car and ran her finger over the radio buttons. She was in the parking garage of the Sisters of Mercy General Hospital and it was 10:00 AM. The radio was not on, but the car vrummed gently and released exhaust. Doris was completely in control of this one moment and space and she wanted to fill it with her self. The car in front of her had a sticker that read Let Go and Let God and she smirked and imagined bashing the driver's head in with the blunt of an axe: that's what God will do, as soon as you let go.

She reached down and pressed in the cigarette lighter. When it clicks outward ready, she will let it cool and press it in again. She may do this five times before getting out of her car and walking into the branch of the hospital her husband was in.
She curled her toes in the shoes with the rubber soles. Rubber soles didn't make a lot of noise when they paraded down a clinically quiet hallway. Rubber soles decreased the margin of possibility someone would lean out to look at you from the rooms in which their [insert] was dying.

The branch her husband was in was one in which medical students poured through like schools of fish and doctors said things like Mr. Loudermilk has an infection of the, but we don't know why this, and the prognosis looks, fifty-five year old man with history of.

The branch her husband was in could serve as a backdrop to a show about medical mysteries. This branch did not have slogans or 5k runs or sponsors or RN's that smiled. This branch did not have flowers or balloons or "Granny's gonna get better, pumpkin"s.

Doris washed her hands in the sanitary sink. A few weeks ago she had still been taking her rings off to make sure she got the antibacterial soap onto every surface of her skin. A few weeks ago she was still reading to her husband as he lay in a medically-induced coma on the bed. A few weeks ago she was signing off on emails with things like Keep us in your thoughts! He's doing better everyday!

Now she sat vigil beside her husband's body and hoped no one would come in to offer up a slice of humanity.

It was a car accident. No one else was hurt except him. When the authorities arrived he had been explaining what happened. Then he looked at his wife and asked, "What are you doing here?" before the convulsions began.

Her hair touched her shoulders. He wanted her to try a shorter haircut but now it was growing in again.

She put her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. In this position no one would bother her for a long time and she could look the way she thought she was supposed to. How much longer would she be societally required to keep doing this?

She loved her husband. She did not love this. Doris did not love the body that her husband was tethered to. Here beside him was the only time she allowed herself to think whatever she wanted to. And she thought that she wanted him to either come or go, and not this half-assed shit he was pulling right now.

She felt hollow and huge and she thought of the Aztec temples with the Flowery Deaths and the heaps of bodies at the bottom. Her chamber was empty, void of hope and misery and how gladly she would fill it with either until it bled at the seams.

She mouthed her mantra against her hands and then the tears did come. "Oh God, oh God Frank where are you. Where are you, where are you, where are you." Sounds that came out in breathless blubbers and soft squeals into her hands.

And into the cosmos, deep in the ether and beyond all knowing those words reached across unknown distances and time:

SOUP IS BACK
SOUP IS BACK
SOUP IS BACK