Pieces of a Woman

4

I heard somewhere that dust can be made of anything, from dead skin to space rocks. As long as it can be broken down and swept up by air, it can be dust.
I feel like dust right now. Broken down and swept up into the air, tiny, overlooked and insignificant. I stare at the dust on the railing of the hospital bed and think that that's the kind of dust I am. Probably nothing but dead skin, clinging onto the side of grandmothers bed, hoping to all that is holy that I don't get swept up by air and whisked away.
Aaliyah is in the bed with granny, both asleep. I stare unblinking at the air and think about decisions. Decisions that break us down and sweep us away. Decisions that break our children down and sweep them away. The dusty decisions we make that effect everything we love and we don't know it until it is too late.
I wonder how things would be different if maybe mom had made a left instead of a right and never ran into my father, whoever he may be. Or maybe, if grandma had went uptown instead of downtown and never met my grandfather. Then I wouldn't exist. And wouldn't that be easier?
But if I didn't exist as me, I would exist as something or someone else. I believe a spirit is a tangible thing and it can never be wasted or replaced or even wished out of existence. And so I ponder, if I wasn't me then what would I be?
Maybe a strange thing to wonder in a hospital in the early hours of the morning but there is something surreal about hospitals that make you contemplate your existence.
So as I stare at air and think about what I am and what I am not, it occurs to me that I am distracting myself. It occurs to me that I would rather think about dust than the state of granny's health. I would rather propose philosophical questions than face the impending, the obvious and the inevitable.
Granny is dying, and with her she will take this entire family. The doctors can not look me in my eyes and they avoid me as much as possible. Like dust. When they told me grandma had AIDS and that she'd also had less than 1 month to live, I began to stare.
I stared at everything. I began by staring at the doctors. I'm not sure why but I can tell you that Dr. Steward has the tiniest mole right above his eyelashes or that Dr. Mary has 20 different shades of grey in her eyes and that she irons her hijab because it is absolutely creaseless.
I stared at them until they dared to look away and they haven't looked back since. I wouldn't either. But when there was a knock on the door, I was forced to stop staring and start thinking.
There was a man at the door. He was bald and fit with a gentle urgency about him. Like he cared about you, but he had other stuff to get to caring about so you'd better make it quick. I immediately knew he was a social worker. The worst kind of worker.
He walked in without being invited and sat a chair right in front of me. Without the slightest of greetings. I began to stare at him too. I saw that he had freckles that were a shade darker than his skin tone. And that his teeth were straight and lined up perfectly. They might have even been white once upon a time but coffee and cigarettes became a bad habit.
I began to piece him together, not in a prejudiced way but out of curiosity. I could tell that he had high hopes for himself. A piece of that pride still lingered in his walk. He may have even had high hopes for his job. He thought that he would help people and make a difference in his community.
He was excited his first case and then ten cases later. But twenty cases later he began to realize a pattern and the weight of reality finally settled between his eyes where there is now a permanent crease.
He wakes up every morning hoping to see something different but knowing that he won't. I sympathize with that. And for this reason I decide to be nice to him and do more than just stare.
"Hello." I say as politely as possible
And this gives him all the invitation he needs. He goes straight into his spiel and I immediately regret my decision to be nice.
"Hello Miss Brown my name is Isaiah Parker but you can call me Izzy."
"You can call me Izzy" I mock him internally. He wants me to feel like we're old friends, like I can trust him with all my problems. He's oblivious to my dismay and continues on uninterrupted.
"I am a social worker and I have been assigned to your case. Now it says here that you are 14 and your name is Alicia. And that your younger sister, Aaliyah, is four. Is that correct?" He asks as if he doesn't have it sitting right in front of him. You tell me Izzy, you probably know better than I do.
But I don't say that, I just say "yes". I stare at his freckles and give them names as he talks. That one is lily, and that one is William that one over there is frank and his friends name is Johnny." But then he stares back at me like he's waiting for an answer and I have no idea what he just asked.
"I'm sorry?" I choke out embarrassed for being rude. He just chuckles because I'm sure he's seen lots of this in his patterned cases. I'm sure I'm just another speck of dust.
"Do you have any other relatives you and your sister can stay with?" And I'm back to staring. Because Izzy just blew the first breath that will whisk me and Aaliyah away like specks of dust in a wind storm.