Loneliness A L'Extreme

My mom had a major operation last week. She lied face down, unconscious for 8 hours in a closed place, held down by people with masks, two continents and 7 hours away from me. I, on the other hand, woke up, put on my work clothes, checked my watch, looked at my cell for text updates from my dad, took the subway, rode the elevator with people who do not and will not know each other and got to my desk. I typed, emailed, talked on the phone. I worried, worried, worried. I looked at the skyscraper outside my window and got dizzy. My mommy lied down with a 30 cm opening in her back. They put in new bones, they put in screws - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and 10. I know how to count -- I am just telling you. I called my dad to see how things were going. He said everything was moving along as planned. My aunts were there, my aunts' friends were there.

A vendor called. Someone invited me to a meeting. I checked my watch. Two more hours to go I said. And then one more.

Mommy came out of the operation. My dad's voice was shaky, his speech was rushed. I let him go. He was exhausted. I was exhausted. I hid behind my screen and waited for my eyes to dry. No one noticed. No one called. No one asked.

They serve soup du jour here. It helps liven up the menu, to sprinkle some French. It makes people feel as if they are in Europe perhaps. Maybe for some, that's as close as they will get. They keep their heads down and have their soup. They sign their check, tip the waiter and then exit. No chit chat, no how are you. I am here to eat and you are here to serve. It's the driest relationship. It's means to an end.

I got served the coldest dish in New York the day my mom went under the knife. It was called loneliness a l'extreme...I don't recommend it.