Sandwiches
Essay 9, Finite
by gayla mills
Today I was the center of a puppy sandwich—fur encased,
my arms trapped beneath the sheets. Riley and Zoey lay parallel on either side
of me, their legs in the air. I wanted to stay trapped there
forever.
Today I was the center of a medical sandwich. On my left
was Bertha, eighty eight years and no longer counting, telling the fictions she
believes to the doctor. On my right was the white coat, reassuring her with his
own fictions. His eyes and mine spoke back and forth as his words swirled around
the room, empty and unnourishing. The pressure builds in my chest as the doctor
tests hers. I am her protector, her helper, and her son’s wife. I am squeezed in
the sandwich and gulp for air.
The clock is stopped, the clock leaps forward, but no
matter what, I can’t change it. I will be eaten up, one way or
another.
Next
my arms trapped beneath the sheets. Riley and Zoey lay parallel on either side
of me, their legs in the air. I wanted to stay trapped there
forever.
Today I was the center of a medical sandwich. On my left
was Bertha, eighty eight years and no longer counting, telling the fictions she
believes to the doctor. On my right was the white coat, reassuring her with his
own fictions. His eyes and mine spoke back and forth as his words swirled around
the room, empty and unnourishing. The pressure builds in my chest as the doctor
tests hers. I am her protector, her helper, and her son’s wife. I am squeezed in
the sandwich and gulp for air.
The clock is stopped, the clock leaps forward, but no
matter what, I can’t change it. I will be eaten up, one way or
another.
Next