Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
olive skin and a figure more blatantly curved. Her nametag says Marisol, like the flame in
Spain. It couldn't be, or seems unlikely. Marisol?
“Yes.”
Are you from Spain?
“Yes.” She's not surprised that I would guess Spain instead of Mexico. My pulse rises from
seventy-eight to ninety-two, because she's pulled back my blanket and sheet as a mechanic
might lift a hood on a vintage vehicle. With a washcloth she wipes the residue of Betty's visit,
which obviously did not happen but just as obviously was different than a dream. I wonder if
this dark-skinned nurse named Marisol is a dream, and I know she's not. She cleans my parts
and must have put alcohol on the rag; so cold. Who could sleep through Betty Boop? Why
would I dream that?
Are you from Pamplona?
She rinses the rag to finish the task, impressed by a debilitated man's profusion. Not as
young as he used to be, but he's no dud on spermatozoa output. Surely she knows that some
systems persist oppressively. Nurses are resigned to difficult truth. I wish she knew how much
her care means to me. I wish she'd slow down and show more tenderness. Who could have
foreseen that our glowing innocence creekside so far away and long ago would come to this?
Where were you? I waited for you by the creek. An hour I waited. I missed you. Do you
remember when we met?
“Breakfast. You like oatmeal? It is good for you. You must eat. Then you get well. I will
help you.”
Isn't it odd, that the memories lasting longest are those of the caregivers? I didn't know
decades ago that she was a caregiver. It couldn't have worked with Marisol and me, but I loved
her.
And in a blinding realization I knew that it could have worked. The fuck. It did work, was
working. Look at her. She cradles my head and spoons oatmeal into the mouth hole, loving
me right back. I know that I will honor and obey her, till death do us part. See her catch the
dribble and scrape it back up and into the hopper?
We often and easily imagined old age in the 60s, because a wizened self comes to mind
on psychedelics—the alternate plane extrapolates freely on hidden data, granting perceptions
otherwise unattainable. Probability goes to 100% on whatever you like. You can be Uncle Wig-
gly walking a crooked mile. Storybook imagery is as accessible as refracted light sparkling
though a prism. It wasn't real, yet it survives that time.
The boomers graduated. The boomers got married, divorced and remarried. Some had
grandchildren, and all learned to love the senior discount and would not mind bankrupting
Social Security. Fuck you; we paid.
Marisol goes from the chin wipe to the rollover and ass wipe with the same wet rag. At
least she got the order right. Was it a fresh rag? Well, the task is done. We adapt. What was
