For Tamara by Sarah Lang Read Free Book Online Page B

surgeries I can barely do / on a good day. / And that the end of that day / I want you there. / Sue me for being selfish.
    Headaches: check: 1–10: worst ever; like thunder; new after 40; anything getting worse; numb, weak, vision, tingling; stiffness of the neck.
    No wax goes unused. / We are going to heat that together and make new candles. / Understood?
    Always keep a fire going. / Cut it or learn to tie, braid whatever your hair back.
    When skin is pinched and doesn’t bounce back: get that person water. / There are other signs, from cramps to dry mouth. / But get water, now.
    There were festivals where people would gather to watch a cherry tree bloom. / I don’t even know where to find one. / Even before this I was working on new traditions. / I believed in only a few of what were called “holidays.” / Birthdays, Valentine’s Day, Hallowe’en. / That doesn’t mean I don’t miss some things. / Smell of a tree in your house. / Never St. Pat’s in Penn Station. / Now we get to make new ones.
    The sun rises / and I think “why another day?” / Can we keep doing this? / Is it too much to ask for respite?
    Because that’s why I loved you: I could talk to you. / So yes, this potted plant isn’t quite the same.
    I could speak in any dialect of English, and even a couple other languages. / Your French sucked, but no matter. / I never had to explain myself to you.
    I can write you this book because I’ve never seen time as linear. / I get it, / but I don’t get why I can revisit any time I want: / I give you this.
    See the little lines coming of that wound? That is a blood infection, sepsis. / We have the choice of antibiotics or cutting off that limb.
    People don’t much change. / Even with all this. / Love them as they are.
    Sometimes I’ll see a torn image of somewhere we were / and I remember it completely. / And I know it is gone. / And I can’t even tell you.
    Not with a concussion, Darling. / Trust me twice.
    Drowning is like a head injury, you can slowly die a day later. / Constantly check on those patients.
    Darling, that girl is ODing. / We don’t have charcoal, so let’s think of other ways to get that stuff up. / Her airways need to be clear.
    I wish I could just sync our brains, / and give you everything in mine. / Then again if humans could do that / we wouldn’t be so human.
    Darling, when saving someone in the water / the time it takes to take off (most of) your clothing / will save you more time in the water.
    We have an outbreak. / It does not seem to be airborne. / So everyone gets extra water to heat (for three hours), / to wash hands. / If anyone has bleach, / now is the time to share. / We have to identify and quarantine at this point. / We’ve got this far, / let’s keep going. / And we are tired.
    Currently, I’m too tired to talk to you about this. / But yes, while I know you need to be a “normal” kid, / “normal” means something else now. / I need to sleep. / You have to understand that, / and for the record you do too. / Just let’s make it through tomorrow.
    Everything isn’t going to be fine. / As much as I’d love to tell you otherwise, / it ain’t. / And you have to learn that sooner rather than later.
    You see those dark lines on your arm? / You are septic: / your blood is infected. / We have to make a choice: antibiotics or your arm.
    I never believed in guns — nor did your grandmother — so no, I have no idea how to put that thing together.
    The smell of a Mayday tree. / Tea roses. / Me.
    I wanted a supply list of meds and weapons.
    I remember saying goodbye to your Dad. We both knew his work was more important than us. Bigger than us.
    Dad is working on helping us all. / I promise. / Right now, eat those carrots I grew.
    Hot soap and water is key. / Bathe. / Wash the dishes, cutlery.
    Postal System: an infrastructure designed to send and deliver