Waiting for Transport
She keeps wanting to push the orange button. Doesn't understand it's for calling the nurse.
“Let's give it a try, shall we?” she suggests, suddenly energetic and enthusiastic. Almost lucid.
She wants to connect. To push the orange button and dial the magic numbers that let her talk to family and friends. In between her repeated desire to dial, we talk.
“Isn't that cute,” she says softly, smiling, holding the little pink stuffed dog.
“Is Mr. Mitty still barking?” she asks with genuine interest, confusing my cat with my brother's dog, and as she talks all the family pets are rolled together into the mix.
“So I just push the orange button and then dial? I'll have to try that.”
Then she closes her eyes. Mostly closes them. Her left eye stays open a crack, one part of her keeping watch while the other part prepares for departure.
She starts a bit, sits up.
“Okay,” she murmurs and nods, settling back. “Okay.”
This happens at intervals, as if she is receiving instructions for her journey. Tips for crossing the border with ease.
She is not upset now the way she was before. The “oh jesuses” and “damn its” have stopped, and now there is only “okay, okay” and a squinty look on her face like she is trying hard to see something that's in front of her. Trying to make out some illegible handwriting in a dream.
Suddenly she seems to know where she is going. Her eyes open and she appears to be waiting. Waiting for transport.
I sear this image of her face into my mind, capturing these hours spent seeing her off, whispering bon voyage, giving words of encouragement.
Driving home, I long to hear her voice. Touch her cool skin. Ensure her safe passage.