Well, that’s what I called you when other people weren’t in
your room in ICU. It’s something you and I do in emails: we move through birds,
flowers, bugs. But I’m not very good; you know the natural world so much better
than I do. In the last series of emails, I wrote, “Hi, my little bumblebee,”
and you wrote, “Hi, my little lovebug.” Before that, it was, “my little
cuckatoo” (you to me), “my little pelican” (me to you), “my little flycatcher”
(you to me). See? I couldn’t think of bugs or flowers in the hospital. I called
you the names you don’t like so much. Each nurse or doctor who walked into your
room asked what name you prefer. I didn’t say, “Honey” or “Girlie-girl.”
Tempted, though I was.
Last weekend riding my bike for 50 miles, breaking all
land-speed records (for slowness while staying upright), I was trying to form
this letter, and I kept coming back to two images from the hospital. There were
lots of different workers doing specialized jobs at all hours of day and night.
There was a different person for linens than for bandages, etc. They were
instructed, I’m sure, not to disturb patients or visitors; they rarely made eye
contact with me. As you would have, I thanked each one.
One morning a woman I saw often, heard little, was busy with a
cabinet of bandages, and I said something to you with “Sweetie” at the end, and
this beautiful woman, short, my age, gorgeous brown-red skin, turned to me,
looked in my eye, and smiled. I don’t know what she was telling me, but it was
kind.
Another morning, maybe 5am, a man came to wipe the basket
that catches the excess anti-bacterial goop, and I thanked him. He turned,
asked me if I’d like a cup of coffee. He disappeared, came back with a fresh,
hot cup of coffee. With the cup securely in his hands, he bowed and gave it to
me. I thanked him for his kindness. He looked in my eyes.
I just want you to know that since you left your house, you
have been surrounded by respect and kindness. And as our cousin, Priscilla,
said of her experience with Aunt Ann’s accident, there are surprising, shining
moments throughout this tumultuous time.
Nothing more surprising or shining than you, my little goldfinch.
Love you so,
-Kate
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