Nightmare in Haiku

Sweltering in sheets

Night is thirst, betrayal, fear

I pray for the dawn

It’s Autumn but the sweat pours off me. I have the odd mix of the air conditioner on low and the pair window wide open. I’m hoping for the perfect mix. The bed just doesn’t feel right.

I’m dreading the morning but it’s equal to my desire to remain under the sheet, thermal blanket, and spread. I need some weight on my legs. Otherwise, I might fly away in the night. Maybe enter a dream and never leave. That would be the antithesis of entering a nightmare and not having the choice to leave.

My people in Puerto Rico have done the latter. They can leave if they want, you might say. There’s only thirst, rot, and maybe death waiting for them. Some have boarded planes and ships to Florida- that place across the water that is an extension of the island except for everything.

I’m up here. Sending packages. Collecting money. Calling my family and neighbors.

Do you need anything? Anything at all? I’ll send it.

What we need, you can’t send.

Electricity

Running water

We laugh across the again running land line. Hollow and crackly co-exist like old friends.

My house is okay. No damage. I won’t be there for a very long time. I’m not the sort of person who manages without electricity. I was there last Fall. The cables across the way blew fiery sparks and the copper wires didn’t apologize to the bananas they scorched. The phone calls to the electric company seemed to be ignored. I later found out that they too didn’t have power.

I worried about my Dad who the previous night worried about the shiny lights that were on at his neighbor’s house. They should be off, he said. Go inside, I encouraged. I worried that he wouldn’t pay attention to me. He did. There was that moment he hesitated. My gut told me that he wouldn’t always listen. It told me to fly him back up to NY with me. I did.

I’ve had many nights drenched in my pouring anxiety. My silver hair matches the fox that steals into my room and wakens me to every odd sound and the jingle of the bells that I placed on his doorknob. I’ve listened. Coaxed him into returning to bed. Midnight isn’t safe when you’re eighty-six. Go back to bed, Pop. I’ve prayed that the nightmare would end and I’d be released.

My Dad’s in an Assisted Living Facility now. They call him Papa, speak to him in Spanish, and I take him out to eat and we sit together on the Coney Island Boardwalk or at Emmons Bay watching the swans propel their large bodies with tiny black feet. My Dad forgets what he was going to do a second after he sets out to do whatever it was, but he’s okay.

I still wrestle with my sheets at night. Worried. I think of my Dad and how Alzheimer’s quietly slipped into our lives. I think about my house with the balcon and the hammock in the back under the tin roof. I think about my family and all of the neighbors and the sazon and the mofongo and Ketty blasting Tito Rodriguez LPs on Sunday afternoons. I think about the lizards and the dogs and the kids playing basketball under the cancha.

At night, I plan when I will get to BJs to buy more pampers, baby food, and batteries. BJs- where a young teen laughed at all the Kotex we stored in our cart. I plan on when I can do it all again on my way back from visiting my Dad who has no inkling he got out of his island at the nick of time.

I worry, plan, take action, and pray. I repeat as I pull the covers up and then throw them off again. My bed is just not right.

Time Takes Time

Writers lament about blocks, character names and whether or not to self publish. My worn out yearning is that of not having enough time to write as often as I’d like.

I tend to glance at my watch all day long. The clock hands turn whether I’m watching a ‘woman’s movie’ or my fingers are flying across my keyboard. Breakfast must be made, as well as lunch and dinner. My nine hour work day is shared with my run and dog walk. The hour or so I spend with friends a few nights a week compete with the time I reserve for food shopping and my commutes. Dare I add in shower time or that five minutes I use for plucking my eye brows?

I could create a mad lib exercise specifically for the outlandish and outrageous uses of time. I’d be remiss not to add the hours I use for praying and meditation- or for thinking about prayer and meditation.

Sitting at this airport awaiting to board, I realize now would be the one perfect opportunity to write. It will make up for a week of evenings on the porch with my octogenarian Dad, afternoons walking on the tiny sunny sidewalks of Aguada, PR and morning runs with my spouse and dogs on Playa Punta del Pico. Nothing, writing included, would fill my heart as listening to my father’s evening tales of the family not being able to buy rice during WW II because they didn’t have an ‘in’ at the grocers and other abject tales of poverty one generation ago.

I shiver when I think about my luxury problem of not having enough time to write because I count on a paycheck for a living. The blessing I forget is that I collect it after providing service for people living with various measures of mental illness. I’m aware that in itself is a luxury- treating depression instead of debilitating diseases of malnutrition.

I’m on the plane now with all sorts of plans. I will complete the next set of revisions for my current manuscript, add to the second novel I began a few months ago and call my Dad to let him know how much he is loved. I will return to that post vacation place of ‘not having enough time’ and forgetting that I’m just where I’m supposed to be and that time takes time.