Despair

Recently, I read a book called Monster. It’s a story written about a young black man on trial for murder. It’s written in his point of view. I read before I go to sleep and sometimes the voice of the characters are so strong they get into my head. I dream about them and I think like the character I’m reading about. Tonight I was reading about when the kid’s mom visited him in jail, about how she cried and how un real it was that she had entered that world. I knew exactly how she felt. I was transported to the first night Mandy lay suspended between life and death. Too scared to think about sleep, I lay in the sub zero waiting room, in an easy chair designed for something other than comfort. I dozed off for a few minutes and when I woke it took me a few seconds to figure out where I was. And then the reality set in. A ball set heavy in my stomach. My chest ached with sorrow, I remembered I was a room-and-a-hallway from my little girl laying in a hospital bed unable to breath for herself, her conscious somewhere un-arousalable by earthly means. I was weighed down with grief. I was tempted to go to that place that said “I’ve had enough, how much can one family take.” But I knew that was a dark cave that could suck me in so deep I’d never escape. Instead, I concentrated on breathing, I tried to calm my pulse and I thought o my self, “This is my world right now. This waiting room is my home, the few minutes I spend with her are my salvation, my job is to pray.” Tears came at odd hours, in odd places. Sleep came when my body demanded it. But always, always prayer was in my heart and on my lips.