Compression

He’ll have the first surgery in his entire life in just a few hours. The first step in a much longer journey to come. I’m in Florida as I attempt to type this. It’s 4 something in the morning. My partner is asleep next to me in the hotel that’s 10 minutes away from the hospital. Earlier today she said she wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else. I cry. I write. I cry. I write.

There’s uncertainty on what the next step should be regarding his health. Or what he wants. Or what is least likely to do even more damage. When it was decided they’d start with a surgery, mom calls and asks if I could be there. I say of course. I have $112 in the bank. I put everything on my website for sale. I give folks the option to donate if they don’t need art at the moment. The support is overwhelming. I don’t have the capacity to be as grateful as I want to be. I want to get to my parents asap. My mom says to wait.

They had to leave Puerto Rico for this. Less than a year of living out what had been a lifelong dream for both of them: to retire in the land of their/our people, where they could be surrounded by green, could have their own home and not some apartment in a crumbling building, where they could grow food, could breathe easier, could rest, could move. It was the most I had seen my mom outdoors since 2001. My mom sends me interpretative photos - blurs, buildings, birds maybe. They both text me photos of each other, out and about. Smiling. Eating. Growing things. Home. They saved and worked and waited for this.

And now…