A Time to Dance(20)

            and their riches.





MY

Last

VISITOR





After Pa’s cousins leave,

            someone I expect even less appears:

            my former rival, Kamini.

            Holding a big bunch of red zinnias.

            Why is she here?

            To gloat over my crutches?


Hands shaking, she thrusts the zinnias in my face.

            “For you,” she says, pointing out the obvious.

            I’m so shocked I open and shut my mouth twice, fish-like,

            then manage to mumble, “Thanks.”

            “So- so- sorr-rry,” Kamini stammers.

            What’s Kamini scared of? She’s the one with a sharp tongue.

            My tongue’s never been quick enough to answer back.

            My foot won’t outpace her feet anytime soon.

            “Sorry,” she repeats, looking so uncomfortable

            I start feeling more sorry for her than irritated.

            “Kamini? Not your fault.”

            Her face contorts as though she’s being tortured.

            She stumbles on her way out of the room,

            leaving me wondering why she came.


“Your friend?” my roommate asks.

            “Nice red zinnias she brought.”


“Not my friend.” I consider

            tossing the flowers into the wastebasket

            where I threw our dance teacher’s torn-up card.


But Kamini actually visited,

            which is more than Uday anna did.

            As we’re not exactly friends,

            and seeing how she was shaking the entire time,

            it must have been hard for her to come.

            Kamini’s flowers deserve better treatment

            than our dance teacher’s worthless card.


I put the red zinnias on the side table

            between my roommate’s bed and mine

            so she can enjoy them.





DISCHARGE





Dr. Murali removes most of my bandages.

            My cuts and bruises are healing.

            He says I can go home with my right leg still bound,

            stitches still in.


“Maintain good posture.

            Bad habits are hard to break,” Jim reminds.

            He guides me one last time,

            up and down a flight of stairs and through the corridor.

            He stays at my side.

            I hobble behind Ma, Pa, and Paati,

            glad I’ll soon be free of innumerable pairs of nurses’ eyes.

            Scared I won’t be near Jim’s caring arms,

            won’t hear him say, every day,

            “You’re doing great.”


Near the main doors, I see two nurses, heads together,

            sharing my story

            in too-loud voices.

            “She was a dancer, that one.”