El Dia de Meaningless

"Now you need to listen to me. Your mother is dying..."

    Its been awhile Dear Diary. Maybe, it would sustain life longer if I do not explain why. Today, el dia de muerta, I find myself unable or unwilling to jot down these blackened pained thoughts onto this white, clairvoyant paper that brings to life all this hardened pain once more. Perhaps, this day was not supposed to exist. All in all, I can not find myself this understanding of nightmarish realities and darkness beyond the night. When the blackest things present to me evolved from the night, but today I find they never were black but faded blue, how can I ever explain blackness in its entirety?

    The scenery passing seems to blur as I keep driving into a large canvass of colors all streamed together. This drive will never end, these three and a half hours of constant worry, this day did not start this way. I woke up today and my movie was only two hours away. The opening of the Lord of the Rings, Sandra, my best friend, and I had followed religiously upon the making of the video until the opening day. An interruption during breakfast side tracked our plans which became short-lived and unimportant.
   
    After a three hour drive, some stretching and some cold fresh air I find myself walking through the halls of a large, white hospital. The reeking smell of death prominent throughout each floor, but slightly becoming more distinct as I reach the seventh floor where the smell is so foul it quickly is blocked from my mind's notice. Down this long, wide hallway seeming to never end, she is held prisoner inside a doorway, inside a room of pain and misery. A nurses' station conveniently placed in front of her doorway observes secretly and records every minute detail.
      Wandering inside this room, a large window looks out to the snowy puffs floating gracefully down, watching the ant-like people busying their lives. Unfair, that these people are allowed to roam free when this young woman clings to a body, chained to a bed. Taking notice in front of the window two figures stand hunched over sobbing uncontrollably, with one figure standing out more pronounced than the other. This figure glances up to observe my line of dark shadow casting down from the center of the doorway. Heavily, and still surprisingly quite quicker than usually expected, she bounds from the window to the door. Her arms yank me outside into the white hallway where the nurses float from desk to patient than back around in a circulatory revolution. Tears roll down her face as hiccups, embarrassingly, escape her physical form.

  "Now you need to listen to me. Your mother is dying so you need to go in there and tell her your goodbyes. Tell her everything is alright and then you need to leave. She doesn't need to know anyone is in the room it will only agitate her. Remember, she's in an unconscious state and they aren't sure if she can actually hear us."
   
      My eyes narrow and my muscles tense. How dare she do this to me, to my mother, not today, I think to myself.
  "Aunt Bonnie you need to calm down. I know this is tough, but you need to realize she has been here before and every-time she has won the battle and proved miracles happen." I hug her, fighting my urge to slap her, but she begins to shake and pulls away. We stare at each other, eye to eye.
 
  "You have no idea!" Her body puffs out it looks to me like a cat fluffing up before a dog attack. "She's dying! She wont walk outta this, its too bad and its impossible. She WILL die, and you need to say goodbye now!" Sternly, she spoke and this side of her, the snob side, became distinct in her eyes. She knew more than every person alive, is what those eyes tell me. A pudgy body on this short stature became a prominent symbol of her numerous riches consumed by the rich and fattening foods in took at each meal. My attitude began to rise, or maybe the pride of the poor multiplied by my sympathy with tragedy.
 
  "You need to knock this off!" I reply. Standing a few steps back, the nurses begin to get on edge, I'm sure they've seen this before. "My mother is less than twenty feet away with only a thin wall separating us from her. She doesn't need this lack of confidence. I see what you see, and she knows because is is experiencing it. Right now all she needs is love, support and understanding, not this pity you feel, and not even because of her, but for yourself. Yes, you just lost your mother, but today is not about you, its about my mother, and she needs our support and confidence she will make it out this time also. I'm going back in there and I'll talk to my mother like I want to. She'll wake up and survive this just like every other time!"  Turning from her grips I march back into this white room filled with beeps and artificial breathing.
 
    These tubes crawling in and out of her arms like venomous snakes attaching to their prey.  Her chest involuntarily jerks up as the respirator pumps a balloon of air inside her lungs. I walk over to her and I attempt to run a hand through her black hair that is still graying with age, but a small iv implanted upon her head halts me. Removing my hand I run my index finger down the side of her face until the tube inserted into her throat stops me. I lean down, my mouth equal with her ear and I whisper for only her to hear.
 
  "I love you, mom. You're gonna be fine." There is no response, no response ever. The machines breathe with a heartbeat artificially in the background until one day they stop.
 
    Never will she be more than she is now, chained to a bed for the last of her life. How can I tell her it would be better to just die? This bedridden life was never meant for her, this life of food-less food, uselessness, and inaudible speech, what does she have left? Sightless eyes and tasteless senses, how is this a life? I sit here, without a tear, I wonder if she should just die, but then the thought it tears and breaks, shatters and shakes, never, never can she leave! How can it be better for her to give up and not live at all? But, how is it fair for her to be tormented this eternity, or so it may seem?
   
      This day, this day has no meaning like it once grasped so well before. The sun is shining through my window, through the heaps of cloth and plastic so keenly pasted and nailed in place to the frame of this old house. Who exalted this permission to so gallantly stream through this flawed fabric brought to sustain only one purpose, to keep this enemy of the day out. I am not fighting the sunlight this day, I am however, fighting this thought that will neither extinguish, nor distinguish a purpose from my mind. How can this day be any different than the last except that the sun has entirely revolved around once again? December twenty fourth marks no resolute meaning today, nonetheless until this year it sparked vast meaning of complete importance. Oh, Dear Diary...