The Pilgrimage

I did this crazy awesome thing called ChoreoFest where I stayed awake dancing all night and got up the next day and performed the dance that we made. It was a blast. While we were building the piece, we were asked to write about a journey we'd taken. I liked what I wrote enough to post it here.


On Christmas Day when I was sixteen, I put on the new cream corduroy slacks I unwrapped that morning. I had an Angora sweater that matched, perfectly. I braided one long, thin braid in  my hair. I slid a pair of nail scissors into my pocket. I checked my reflection, testing if you could see their shape through the thin fabric.

I went downstairs and put on my coat. I felt the weight settle heavy on my shoulders, the black hem brushing the floor. I wore black ballet flats. There was no snow.

I got in the car with my mother. My grandparents stood in the door. My brother didn't say goodbye.

The car took a long time to heat up. We drove in silence. I pressed my hands into the pockets of my corduroys. Under my coat, I pressed the point of the scissors into my thumb so hard I thought I would surely break the skin. Puncture the film holding the air in my body, the air in the car, pressure valve, sudden release.

I thought about Sarah McLaughlin songs. I thought about snow on gravestones. I watched the empty roads roll by.

I couldn't press hard enough to break the silence.

The car stopped. I couldn't remember making the turn into the hospital parking lot. "Okay," my mother said, soft. I thought she might ask if I was ready.

"Be careful when you get out, there's ice on your side." I nodded.

We walked slowly up to the doors, trying not to slip. The hems of my slacks dragged along the ice and I could feel them growing damp and grey. We entered through the side doors and passed the donor wall. I paused to read the names.

"Robert," my mother's voice loud in the quiet corridor. I turned to see my uncle shuffling toward us. He seemed too thin, translucent in the florescent lighting. The skin beneath his eyes shadowed like a bruise.
We said things. I can't remember now. The words kept shifting away from me. I remember:

"They told us we should leave"  "When did it happen"  "He was awake"  "They won't move him yet"

I drifted up the hall. The family waiting room, tv always on; the hallways full of quiet noises. Whir. Beep. Shuffle.

I remember the doorway, but not the walk. His face. His body. Beneath the sheet. The sheet the color of my clothes. The scissors in my pocket. Pressing not hard enough. My mother leaving to find a nurse.

I remember my father.

My father with skin like paper. My father with eyes like glass.

I remember waiting for his chest to rise or fall. The feeling of cold flesh over bone.  My voice too loud and too little in the silence. His body like a monument. His eyes like empty houses.

I remember no snow.