by Jennifer Roberts
It will come. Of course it will come.
But oh God what if it doesn’t?
There’s no earthly way I will get a yellow cab at rush hour in a downpour like this. Well, I don’t know. It could happen.
A lot of things happen that we don’t expect.
Like standing in the rain on 32nd Street wearing a hospital gown the neurologist gave me because my clothes got soaked coming here, since I was so rattled that I forgot my umbrella.
“Where are we going?” He looks frightened.
“We’re going home, love. Soon we’ll be home, and we’ll get into some dry clothes and have a nice warm dinner.”
Oh yes yes yes it’s here thank God.
“ Okay, sweetheart, you’re going to back into the car. No, no, no. No! Do you see that big sign over there? No, I know you can’t read it. That’s fine. You don’t have to. But can you turn your feet so that they’re facing the sign? Can you do that, love? Can you turn them just a little more? That’s great. That’s wonderful. Okay, so I’m going to hold you and you’re going sit down very slowly in the back seat. Great! Just a little more. You’re almost there, love. Just a little more.”
Another six inches and he will be seated. Only six more inches and then we can get moving.
Slowly, his body begins to straighten out, and I watch in horror as he moves back into a standing position in the rain. He seems quite pleased with himself that he has succeeded in standing up.
Swimming in the swift torrent that is moving from west to east in the gutter beneath our soaking feet are torn pieces of coffee cups, an empty bag of Doritos, a cigarette. I wonder who the people are who dropped them. And I wonder if they too will get Alzheimer’s someday.
Jennifer Roberts is a native New Yorker who returned here in 1992 after stints teaching in Massachusetts and Texas. She now teaches Greek, Latin, and ancient history in the City University of New York.