Lime on White Day

I wrote something about Lime, and I thought I had posted it here on White Day, but it ended up in a separate part of my blog, where nobody can see it. Whoops. So she didn’t see it on the day intended. You know, White Day, a kind of couples-day like Valentine’s Day in Korea.

Ooops, bad me. I also confused her work schedule somehow, thinking she was going to be working in ER all night when she was actually off at 11pm.

I’m bad. Bad man. Ug ug. But anyway, I did write about Lime, and here it is. Short, for readability, because, hell, some of these structures
are hard for some anglophones to read… let alone someone reading in her second language.

Hers are the feet that are the only signs of life in the room, peering out from beneath a huge green blanket. They are the feet with only one painted toe on each foot, an orange concession to I’m-not-sure-what.

Hers is a fist, the making of which is surely known.

Hers is the dark gleam of silver in the back of the mouth, the mark of a sly repairman’s visitation.

Hers is the voice in the ear of a woman who cannot move, whose broken-livered husband, sea-changed by toxin, is howling and fighting off the only help he can be given.

Hers is the mouth from which words come sometimes that make me wish I could right-click, copy and save somewhere more durable than a fleeting bit of chemistry and blood and electrical signal in my head.

Hers are the hands that carefully pull the skirt back down over the old woman’s legs after the last battle is finally pronounced lost, and the other white coats walk away from what they mistake—as she does not—for another mere body.

Hers are the eyes that, opening, tell me morning has actually, really, begun.

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