300 Reviews

"Untitled (Portrait of Ross in L. A.)" by Felix Gonzalez-Torres

You know it’s coming, but knowing doesn’t matter. You remain unprepared. You wake in a strange bed without knowing how to dress yourself, how to choose between clothing you love and clothing you’ll later want to burn. You think about fire. Eventually you remember that the hospital’s chilly, and you decide to wear your favorite sweater.

The doctor says There will be no improvement. The custodian brings boxes of tissues. She hugs you, and your mouth is open, and you taste the chemicals that dye her hair. You think of manipulation, of plucking and preening. You do not know it yet, but you won’t wear makeup again for months.

You stand by your brother’s bed. You begin with Our Father and end with Fuck. You think of the time he hid beneath your bed as your parents argued. You realize you were never an adequate shield. You think of the child who believed secrets should be whispered directly into their recipient’s mouth. Now, your brother’s mouth holds tubes that only the coroner can remove. There is no longer space for secrets.

It takes time. When his hand starts to pull from yours, you tense. You cling. You watch his heart rate drop, noting how it loses energy the same way your morning tea cools, moving from rapid boil to stasis. You realize his hand has grown cold. You will remember the number 12 marking his hospital room. You won’t remember if the photograph behind you depicted swans or egrets.

Your father reaches for your mother, and they limp past. You realize you haven’t witnessed them touch in years. You stand at the door for a very long time. When you finally walk down that hallway, your hand reaches back—running over walls, doorframes, the fire alarm—searching for something to grasp.

Austin Wade (1983-2010)

-Elizabeth Wade

Tags: Elizabeth Wade, Hallways, Hospitals, Photographs, Watching Your Brother Die