Significance

Your hand is coming closer
I see it approaching,
I see it shake wildly
and quickly
-silently-
pray that you
have not overdosed on morphine.
Again.
I see its weakness and wonder
(but just for a moment)
if you can make it.
If your hand has enough strength
If you have enough strength
to hold your hand in midair
for so long.

Maybe,
I think,
Possibly,
The oxygen is aiding you.
The molecules have gathered
-oddly-
into a shape that rather
suspiciously
resembles your hand.
They shriek in pain as
they hold up
your obviously weighted hand
there.
Hovering in midair.

I try not to panic as
your fingers twitch.
Just a slight falter,
I tell myself.
Just a weak link in the troops.

In the back of my head,
my father’s loud,
military voice echoes:
“An army is only as weak
as its weakest soldier.”
A twitch.
Another.

In the distance I hear machine gun fire.
It is muffled,
somehow,
within this open,
breezy kitchen.
I silently muse,
“Perhaps it is echoing
within the pot of boiling
water?”
But I hear it draw closer.

Within instants it reaches my eyes.
I watch enemy fire come crashing
through the delicately
bleached room.
Destroying the Hallmarks of
Birthday’s
past.
Putting neat holes through
Good Luck Daffodils
and
“Get Well Soon!”
cards.
I watch it
behead dozens of smiling teddy bears
and erase
neat calligraphy embroidered on
“Heart to Heart!”
pillows.

I hear the machine gun fire echo,
keeping rhythm with her fingers
as they
twitch
I hear it,
and I know it’s real.

But I’m not sure if anyone else can
over the loud
humming
and
clicking
of the oxygen tank.

I make gentle whispers,
I tempt the bullets.
I beg them to come closer,
to please,
please,
approach these younger features.

I beg them,
just two of them,
to stop their kitchen destruction.
Come closer,
closer
soar as if in midair ballet
make neat
sharp
U-Turns
through my eye sockets.

Erase this nightmare from my sight.
Send it to be buried in a
wholesome ceremony
amongst fellow allies.
Engrave it on a memorial,
for all I care.
Dispel it from my knowledge.
Dispel it from any form of
existence.
Bury it.

I can see the headline already,
“Death by friendly fire.”
If only your obituary could read the same,
But of course,
I don’t want to think about that.

I don’t want to think about the plastic toy soldiers
that you bought me to replace dolls.
I don’t want to think about how those soldiers,
became molecules of oxygen,
or what you would say if you knew
about the latest intricate fantasy
running through my head.

I reach for your outstretched hand and
pull it towards me.
Words stumble out of you delicately,
“Smile. Just keep smiling, the pain will go away.”
Your fingers continue to twitch.
And twitch.
And twitch.