Sometimes Birdsongs are Immortal

          Dear Story Teller,

          You’ll never believe the heavy heat today. I know it is cold up there in Ohio but here in South FL we are burning. At night though everything cools down. Even the voices.

          I am so grateful for this laptop. If it weren’t for it, for sure I’d go crazy. On the table in this small hospital room where my grandson is lying ill, I have my poems. Sometimes I use these pieces of paper as coasters. Coffee rings on them blur my scribbles and sharpen the pain. When I can get around to it, I’ll type and upload them to my portfolio.

          This poor child is so sick! Well, he’s not a child really. Sometimes I wish he were since Florida has some kind of a plan for children. But my grandson is twenty-five now. Unfortunately he doesn’t have any health insurance and not any one of us can pay for the high cost of this health care. Medicaid only pays for certain things and they’ll keep him here as long as he stays in the condition that he is in.

          I heard that some kind of a treatment was possible but it meant money. My son is looking for ways to find help. He told me not to sign anything. My mind races to countless possibilities and gets stuck in every one of them.

          Bye until tomorrow,

          Poetic Paula


          Dear Story Teller,

          I heard another patient’s wife say to someone outside the door, “You are a hero. Who else could think of this treatment that saved my husband? Jason and I will be grateful to you and to this hospital as long as we live.”

          I am sure she and her family have some good health insurance. Heroes don’t come easy and cheap. Here, they are bought by dollars and health insurance. Please don’t frown upon me. If I sound angry or bitter it is for a reason. An hour ago, an accounts receivable employee for the hospital paid a visit to this room. She had a flashing smile and a grey suit, like shark-skin. She wanted me to sign for my grandson. I almost did, in spite of my son’s warnings because I thought that she was doing it for permission for some medical treatment.

          Thank God, I stopped in time and asked why. Instead of explaining it to me she insulted me by saying, “Why can’t you people take responsibility for your family’s expenses! Don’t you want your grandson get good care?” Then she looked at me as if looking at her murder victim.

          I don’t know what came over me. I said, “But I am not his real grandmother.”

          “I heard him call you Grandma.”

          “He calls me Grandma also, since his grandmother is my friend.”

          “Okay then,” She yanked the pen out of my hand and carefully wiped it as if it were the blade of her murder weapon. “Tell the family to see me downstairs when they come around.”

          Heroes here are rotting in their opulence gained from the family members of patients.

          Bye for now,

          Poetic Paula



          Dear Story Teller,

          Last night poems hovered around me in my dreams. I forced myself to wake up and write them down. When I did wake up, I lost them. It felt like I had unknowingly committed suicide.

          Forgive the hiatus with my letters. So much has happened since. I feel like those lost poem dreams. I am now wondering if I am the same person who wrote to you in that last e-mail. Nothing is the same as it seems.

          Before I get more entangled in my own words, let me step back a few days and tell you what happened.

          Unfortunately Steven passed away three days after I last wrote to you. He was like this flower, a narcissus that bloomed early. Before he could stare with his beautiful eyes into his spring, a cold dark wind pried into his roots. Now, that dark wind echoes inside my heart even after finding out that I am not his grandmother. Yes, you read it right. I am not. At least biologically. No wonder, we had such a tough time finding blood for him in that hospital! What a strange twist it is that what I said to that woman has come true! Actually it was true all along but neither I nor Steven knew about it, but my son did.

          My son married Steven’s mother when she was pregnant. They were both in the army away from home. At that time they told everyone, including me, that Steven was their child. My son says he kept up with the lie after Steven’s mother passed away. My son grieves for him as if Steven were his own. Out of his grief, he spilled out these confessions. The end of lies has to be peace. I hope at least my son achieves that peace.

          Still, in spirit, I am Steven’s grandmother for I have known no other grandson but him. And he in his short life has known no other Grandma but me. Sometimes the birds sing very close to the music of what happens. Sometimes their songs are immortal.

          See you in Stories.com,

          Poetic Paula