bcharette
"It usually happens when I'm reading," he said, putting down his cup of black cheap-shit coffee from around the corner. "It starts in the back of my head, sort of builds, and at first the buzzing is just noise, but after a while," he paused here to sip again at the foam cup, "I start to feel it too."
It was only after the applause erupted that I realized I had not taken a single breath.
It had not taken long. He reflected and it occurred to him that perhaps the most significant moment of his entire life had taken place over the course of perhaps three minutes. Yet, he knew, with an almost hubris-like intuition, that those three minutes would exist forever.
At long last. At the end of what she could only remember as being a hellish desert stretch of twothree weeks. She couldn't remember seeing her bedroom in days and had started to think it had been imagined since the beginning.
But finally. She was back.
He floated.
It hadn't been a difficult procedure. The doctor had explained, in quite simple terms he noticed, that they were just going to take all the substance out. That was it. A simple incision/removal.
So he floated, no longer weighed down by anything as unimportant as organs, or a soul.
Looking back, I never could picture Nana anywhere but that old chair. I swear, it seemed to transport itself as if by magic from the porch to the living room and back when I wasn't looking. I think back and now it's as much a part of her as her bones or her skin. The rocker was more my grandmother than a person.