Windows

Late Saturday afternoon and the stifling heat of summer has finally morphed into the milder temperatures of fall. My mom and I are visiting my grandmother in the hospital again. She is half asleep in her bed, staring at me with glassy eyes. She doesn’t know where she is and she keeps asking the same questions: Why am I here? Is this my house? What do I need to do here? Why am I here?

I’m leaning against the doorframe, answering her questions: You’re in the hospital. All you have to do is listen to the nurses, they’re taking good care of you. It’s okay, you won’t be here forever. And then she repeats her questions once more. She is very confused.

I’m staring at the sunlit leaves of the treetops outside of her window and adding up the number of hours I’ve spent inside of hospitals this year. Too many. Different buildings, different wings, different floors, but each room is essentially the same. White sheets, white pillows, the white noise of oxygen machines, my grandmother’s white hair. Is this my house? Metal bed frames, metal door handles, metal curtain hooks, my grandmother’s metallic breath. What do I do here? Pale floors, pale walls, pale hospital gowns, the pale green irises of my grandmother’s eyes. Why am I here?

All of the rooms are the same. Only the windows are different. Big windows, small windows, windows that can be opened, windows that are locked. A single pane of glass promising that the world on the other side hasn’t gone anywhere, that it is still turning and unfolding as it always has. Leaves still turn to yellow and orange in autumn, snow still falls in the winter, flowers still bloom in spring, thunderstorms still roll through the summer, kids still ride their bikes along the streets, people still take their dogs for long walks through the neighborhoods. Colors still exist. It’s all still here waiting for you. Everything will be okay.

The afternoon slips away outside of my grandmother’s window overlooking one of the more historic neighborhoods in town, where dark rod-iron gates enclose landscaped yards with brick pathways that cut through deep green grass and lead up to large porches and elaborate front doors. I stare at yellow leaves on branches floating above Spanish-tiled rooftops and listen to my grandmother breathe the stale air of her hospital room.

I stare out the window. A single pane of glass separating two very different worlds.

I stand on the pale floor, lean against the pale doorframe. The nurse hands my grandmother a white paper cup and two little white pills. I look out the window and stare at leaves. My grandmother pinches the white pills between her pale fingertips and brings them to her pale lips.

I look out the window. A single pane of glass. On the other side, colors still exist.

Everything will be okay.