Westlake Soul
“We Are Family.
Nine hours, thirty-one minutes.
Everything is silent. After all the tears, the house is finally sleeping. I’m wide awake, though, and filled with glassy pain. I hope it abates; the motor cortex is waiting and the clock goes tick-tock. I need to get to work.
But first (and briefly), reflection . . .
Tonight was difficult, but beautiful. So much love for Westlake Soul, but eerily like attending my own funeral. I was fed (probably for the final time) by Mom. She worked quickly, and with noted distraction. It’s okay, Mom, I said to her. Don’t be sad. I understand. Her hands trembled. She spilled formula on my sheets. Mopped it away with the towel, leaving a small stain. She poured the rest into the syringe, her brow furrowed. The tan liquid flowed into my stomach and I thought about prisoners on death row, how they get whatever they want for their last meal. Steak, lobster, prime rib—although most choose junk food, and who can blame them for that?
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