letters to fay // z.m.

15

dear fay,

i'm so aggravated. they won't let me see you. i asked your name and they told me your room number, 304.

when i got to the door, there was a nurse standing outside who told me "only family" are allowed inside.

i'm currently sitting against the wall across the hallway from your door.

i'm waiting for one of your parents to come out so they'll see me. i haven't heard much through the door, just the shuffling of feet and the scooting of a chair.

the nurse hasn't told me anything about your condition, fay. you must be sleeping at the moment because i can't hear your voice....are you getting better? or worse?

i'm getting sick of writing these questions down when the only thing holding me back from asking you directly is a nurse, a two-inch thick blue door, and your closed eyes.

i was just thinking about the time you showed me how to ride a penny board... i fell and scraped both my knees. i'm such a klutz, aren't i? but i made you laugh, that's what counts.

actually, that was the first day i went over to your house. of course, i hadn't been in your room until recently when it was abandoned. you told me it was a "terrible mess" and you didn't want to "embarrass" yourself.

your mum fixed up my cuts and we talked about school. about college. i remember going out in your backyard and talking to you about college. you said you wanted to attend a large art school, but your parents couldn't afford it. i told you i wanted to do art but school was out of the picture.

during those moments, i pictured you and i living together in an apartment, making a living as two accomplished artists, selling our work on the streets and during shows.

and now there are tears in my eyes again. i hope they're letting you do art here in the hospital.

if i don't get to see your face by tomorrow morning, i'll charge at the nurse, bust down the door.

i don't care, as long as i'll get to see you.

-z