On Their Minds
Sam, a twenty-five-year old contractor wearing his favorite sweatpants
and a cap, could tell by looking at his mother, a fifty-year-old woman
with enormous blue eyes in the best shape of her life, that what she
was thinking, looking at his sister through the tempered glass, was
that now she wasn't going to be anything. That's what was on their
minds as they watched her with her whole life in front of her, in her
hospital bed, all eyes about her ghost limbs, the four of them.
Naturally, they couldn't see where her brain stopped, the way it'd been
explained to them about its amount of reach, but with an additional
motion of his brain, Sam realized it was his own awful thought about
what constitutes being, that he'd only been blaming it on his mother.