A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || May 2, 2006 || 1:39 pm

Because to sup of the nectar is forbidden during office hours.

It was mid-morning, and Nic sat at my desk while I sat at the reception desk. Both our heads were bent to the task, one of us occasionally breaking the loaded idyll to shoot a thought at the other.

The task I speak of was one involving a skill learned in girlhood: We were braiding together three fine bands of color –crimson and lime green and the tenderest of pinks– from thirty-eight cent skeins of embroidery thread. A knot in the end, some tape to secure the hank to the desk, and braid away into eight- and ten-inch lengths of teeny plait. This task was purposeful and hopeful: We were waiting to hear from Gary, Nic’s brother.

Gary’s done two tours of Iraq already. The first time he came home there was extended leave and a huge fourth of July celebration. The second time, his huge, rowdy-assed Alabammy family just met him in New Yawk. Gary was just about to shove off for his third stay in sand flea heaven when something happened. He was running PT early one morning last week and out of nowhere went ass over teakettle; he didn’t even know what had happened. A visit to the clinic led to a visit to the hospital and that led to a specialist. The upper lobe of his left lung was a sheet of solid white in the sea of black that diagnostic imaging proffers up and a biopsy was scheduled.

The military moves painfully slowly in such situations and that is why we waited semi-quietly today, making fine braids of crimson and lime (his two favorite colors) and pink (the color of a healthy lung) and holding hope in our insides, willing that hope into our piddly handiwork.

The braids were for bracelets…shows of support, reminders to utter a little prayer for Gary.

“Hey Nic…”

“Yeah?”

“What if we don’t even need these things? We’re gonna feel like such assholes.”

“Nah. We can wear them anyway.”

“Yeah, I guess.

“Nicolette?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“I sure do hope I get to feel like an asshole.”

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

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