An Incessant Cycle

The watch stopped ticking. 

But I have yet to figure out what he needed to tell me so desperately. He’s left all these miscellaneous hints, his diary, his watch, subsidiaries books with notes he couldn’t even possibly read.

1.7.92

He fell into a coma. 

Its 8:45 A.M. His lifeless hands swung by his side, as his pale flaky skin turns to a blur. My face feels damp with tears. I too, am lifeless as I’m unsure if I’m crying for him or for us. 

Its 9:03 A.M, he’s dead. 

I stare at the burning red mark on his neck, maybe this was our fresh start. Maybe we can both just, rest. Both turn away from this and forget. But sometimes you’re too far deep in things to claw your way out. 

I felt a numbing buoyancy, like remembering the name of a song you can only vaguely picture. But that electrifying feeling fades like radio music, as guilt troubles my forehead. Pulled out of my thoughts i notice the nurses and doctors slowly leave, as pitiful glances replaces the sterilized air.

This is where i write his story. 

My father was a brilliant man who felt as though he couldn’t save the world as fast as it was changing. I mean, don’t we all feel like that. That your racing against time and its always just one infuriating step ahead of you. Maybe that’s why he’s sits alone behind cold bars, unable to forgive himself. Sitting in a pit of self deprecation. 

He likes it when i take him out to go to Yale. He's lucky he gets to choose to remember the good beginnings. We stare at the coffee colored building as the falling leaves brings tingly memories to the tips of our fingers. A silence erupts as we both can reminisce back to a time when life resembled black coffee. Simple and easy.

My father halts his almost ghostly footsteps. 767. He looks at those numbers with equanimity; he’s forgotten everything and yet those three numbers probably ring in his head. The beginning and end of this perilous journey, at least the end for him. 

We briskly walk into his lab, engulfed with the familiar smell of isolation. Even machines need someone to visit them once in a while. But this room is like a distant remembrance of what it felt like to understand, to feel, to see the rest of the world with clear doe eyes, and not a worrisome thought in my head. The sea and skies wrapping further around the world than i may ever be aware of. 

My father scans his old lab longingly, with glazed over eyes, as it’s apparent his mind is always wandering farther across the universe than we can see. 

I go out into the hall that’s seemingly quiet, without the usual bustle of determined yet boisterous students. I grab two coffee’s, a luxury always out of grasp from my father’s reach. Dave does say that the medication should taste like chocolate, easier for the patients to consume. We sit down on the metal chairs, the cold creeping its way onto my back. And soon after the lingering footsteps fade, silence sets in. I start to get uneasy as i know the mound of papers i have yet to make an indent on is waiting patiently for my return. 

The slow rumble of my fathers car awakens, as the radio turns on, “good afternoon folks welcome back to 40.7127 we are back with True North by Bad Religion…” i lower the volume of the radio as my father never appreciated loud noises. The ride is silent except for the quiet mumbles coming from the radio and turn after turn we slowly approach the Greenwich hospital.

As if a routine, Dave waves at me and takes my father back to his room. He always has a look of despair on his face, i wonder how broken people are supposed to help other broken people get better.

The corridors are filled with oddly terrifying rainbows and patient names paint the walls. The stench of sterilization burns its way through your nostrils and penetrates your brain, as if to make sure you never forget where you are. Truly a mystery how the people working here don‘t go crazy. I visit every week and sometimes, it feels like I’m loosing my mind. Maybe i am, its not such a crazy thought. There’s that stench again, I’m telling you that stench’ll drive anyone crazy. I‘d rather hop into a tattered white van than spend another filthy second here.

A faint drizzle hits my nose, as the weather always coincides with the sour taste this place leaves in your mouth. Maybe its the crazy air. The car starts with animosity, a familiar roar. “You heard it here first. This is 74.0134 your local Connecticut radio show. This is Into the West by Annie Lennox. Stay tuned for more..” pesky radio shows. 

I press the gas, hoping that maybe lightning‘ll strike my car, rid me of this horrid life. Unfortunately the universe never listens to my cries. Dozing off i see in my rear view mirror, the outline of the hospital growing fainter and fainter until the only thing to focus on is the fog and the dripping raindrops.

9/11/01, 8:44 A.M

The watch stopped.

I’m sorry.

9/12/01, 12:02 A.M 

2,977

2,977

2,977

I’ve decided to write down the facts, maybe my father was wrong.

First building 8:45 A.M 

Dad coma 8:45 A.M 

Second building 9:03 A.M 

Dad died 9:03 A.M

Coordinates/radio show: 

40.7127 north 

74.0134 west 

Plane/ lab number 

Boeing 767, lab 767

Date of coma/death: 

1.7.92

Height of building: 

1,792

Address of hospital/building:

Greenwich

Maybe i was wron…

3/15/14

They gave me my computer back, they told me writing in my journal should help. Its all so fuzzy but they tell me its all okay. I see my name in colorful letters on the wall, its pretty, with rainbows. I feel this itch in my brain, as if I’ve forgotten a very important song name but maybe its no big deal. 

Ive got to go now, Dave’s coming with these chocolates, but I’ll check back in tomorrow. Goodnight!