This afternoon my dad had a pretty massive bike accident and broke his hip and his femur. After my mom called with the news, I wandered around the apartment for a few hours, picking things up and putting them back down without remembering what I intended to do with them in the first place. The soccer captain, two hours home after a business trip to an adjoining state, tried to draw me back to reality by getting me to show him some old photos, but I couldn’t concentrate. He went home while I was soaking in my third shower. Finally I knocked on Greg’s door to ask what he thought I should do. Greg very sensibly pointed out that since I couldn’t manage to get closed toe shoes on, I probably ought to just go home and be with my dad instead of trying to work.
Consequently, I spent the late afternoon and evening on long stretches of Texas highway loving tiny towns with bold and arrogant names: West, Corsicana, Italy, Ennis–towns that lack the New Mexican panache, I mourned, of Los Lunes, Quemado, Belen. I saw about 8 moving vans wending their way from Indiana and Tennessee and Minnesota to wherever home was becoming and thought about my own impending journey (before my dad broke his hip, I found an apartment this morning–it’s all really happening), I saw herds of people on the ground watching flocks of bats taking off out into the deepening pink sky, I listened to my entire extant Tori Amos catalogue and remembered how much I LOVE her, I drove into orange heat lightning splitting the horizon into jagged halves.
My parents are aging and becoming fragile–my mother the lovelorn, the heartbroken, my father the stooping old man. I don’t know what to make of it.