July 2004: Out-living My Expectations
My sister calls. "How's Poppy?" I ask without saying hello. I expect the worst.
"He's sitting up. Reading the comics." She says.
"WHAT?" I raise my voice, "he's supposed to be dead!"
I'm at PF Changs in O'Hare. I'm drinking Merlot and eating squash soup. Just five hours earlier I was relaxing at home in the hammock with a book, the dog asleep on the bricks below me. The monsoon clouds were roiling along the mountains and some distant thunder rumbles were sounding promising. Then I got the call, bought this ticket, re-arranged my whole life and left for the airport in less than 30 minutes. Poppy's dying, my sister told me. This is it. Get here now.
The guy next to me at the bar looks over.
"Well, that's good, but I can't believe it." I say, lowering my voice.
"I KNOW!" My sister sounds incredulous "We really thought this time was it."
I am suddenly filled with guilt. I'm glad he's not dead. He'll still be there when I arrive tonight. I am a little angry though. The hammock, the book, the pooch and the thunder...not to mention the simple pleasure of being home for a weekend with nothing to do.
"I'm glad I'm coming home." I say.
"I know." She says.
"I'll be glad to see him," I say.
"You will," She says.
Posts
