Sun salutations.

 

Her eyes were wild. One looked directly at me, brow furrowed and redundant eyelid heaped in a surly gaze. The other under the control of some other master, wayward and pushed into the corner with mostly muddy sclera showing. But still. I could tell that she was looking at me. Right at me.

"Good morning."

That's how I started each encounter with her. Even though she had lost her nice, flowy words with the stroke, I always could tell that she understood. So I made it a point to "talk regular." Even if she couldn't "talk regular" in return.

"You want me to let some sunlight in here?"  I gestured over to the shade, pulled tight to my left. She nodded. I reached over and began to roll up the long, green, Grady-issue shutter. The morning sun came bursting into the room and we both turned our heads to wince for a bit.

"Too much?" I asked. She shook her head no.

We were mostly waiting at this point for her blood to be thinned out with warfarin. The same heart issue for which she needed blood thinners was the same one that caused her stroke. She'd also need to be cared for in a nursing home and without a method to fund such a thing, that was another challenge hindering her discharge. So the encounters were mostly uneventful. Not very much to talk about or even do.

Still. I asked if everything was okay and then quietly, respectfully examined her body. I'd come to know it well, actually. The mole on her right shoulder, the old cesarean scar on her abdomen now hidden in wrinkled, striated flesh. The ectopic beats of her heart were like a song that plays over and over on the radio and her face was like the crossing guard you see every day in school.

I stopped and took it in, smiling. Was anything different today? No. Not really.

Wait. Except. . . .

"Your plaits came aloose?" I pointed to the cornrow braids on the right side of her head. Eight perfect grey rows of corn with two unruly crops on the right.

She patted the side of her head and nodded hard. Then shook her head and shrugged. We both laughed.

I watched her for a beat and then caught a glimpse of the hygiene kit beside her bed--complete with the tiny plastic comb that came with it. I walked over, picked it up, and then came to her right side.

"You know I got cornrow skills, don't you? You want me to fix this?"

And she nodded.

So I took that tiny comb, parted her hair and I braided. While she stared out that big, open window and hummed. And we both smiled in the direction of that morning sun and all it can bring.

***
Happy Thursday.