Fiction
The handle of Hamid’s saber curved above his cummerbund. Arun did not like the way Hamid’s betel-stained teeth smiled out from between his oiled, drooping mustache.
These future doctors need to make a personal connection, to take the time to discuss next steps, to listen . . . Expressing the symptoms of pain is one thing—judging people on their performances is another.
For days he came home to find her in the same spot, staring at an empty street. When she turned to him, her eyes looked like thin wet glass, as if the slightest sound could shatter them.
The room was dark, the father says. Then darker. It happened so quickly, I couldn’t call out. I thought I smelled grain—wheat or oats—what horses eat. A clean, sweet smell.
Caroline listened to the bellows under her bed, drawing and blowing air. The room asserted itself, always, its rhythmic hiss and pop of machinery, the anti-lullaby of metal cocoons, rows of them, each containing a complicated person.
Is this why, when she finally gets out of her car and sets out to walk with the sun shining on her face–a blessing, sunlight like that–that every grievance, petty or perceived, begins to drain away? She breathes in and out, happy to be outside, happy to be breathing.
My mother believed it was important for a child to witness healthy communication about difficult topics. My father allowed this as long as I remained quiet and didn’t interfere.
You float down the river and soon learn this isn’t a joy ride, you’re not free yet, of duty, of care, of what binds you to the earth; there’s one more job to do. It’s your task to turf the unessential cargo.
And the more I realize that what started as an alibi could be a salvation. Yesterday, I flushed the rest of the pills down the toilet, all at once. They flocked out of sight like a swarm of tiny pink beetles.