By Bob Zordani

Brother, when the doctors
dropped you into a coma
as a last resort,
I thought the straight lines
coming from the machine
meant you were dead.

It was then I cursed myself
for being alive and healthy
and not there to stop you
jumping out of that cab-
or to have done it myself.

Sure, you were broke and figured,
stupidly, jumping fare
would be easy enough
with the cab moving so slowly
along the street that you
could not get hurt.

Ten days later you woke up
with that last thought,
a splitting headache,
and no recollection
of what happened
or where you were
or why it seemed so hard
to remember what we said
or what happened
or where you were
or what we said.

Fifteen years ago
you saw my first seizure.
I remember waking up dazed
in our living room,
surrounded by family,
being told the ambulance was on it way.

In another week
in another hospital
in another state
the doctors tapped my spine
and scanned my brain
for answers they didn’t find.

Today I think of how, months later,
you watched me seize in bed,
how you described what I’ll never see
or remember- the convulsions,
the eyes rolled back in their sockets,
the foaming mouth, the groans,
the silence afterwards-
how you panicked and tried
to pry a pillow between my teeth
so I wouldn’t swallow my tongue.
how you said when I woke up
that it was all right,
that the seizure wasn’t my fault.

When I told you, too late, and gently,
that the tongue can’t be swallowed,
that I should have warned you beforehand,
that you did the wrong thing
but thanks just the same,
you didn’t believe me,
that old wives’ tale
seared to your brain
like the truth.

In this hospital
you are going over lists
with your doctor,
trying to get the facts in order,
to sequence your world
well enough for you
to walk the streets.

Nothing’s that simple, brother.
Memory is a lie
we make ourselves believe
because we’re disconnected,
and lying through our teeth
is all we can do
to hold together.

©2004,Water Press & Media,Inc.