If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary-wise; what it is it wouldn't be, and what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?
The cousin speaks to me in muffled mumbles. I cannot hear her, so I watch her face. When she smiles I laugh softly and when she frowns I shake my head and murmur, oh dear. The original low talker. This cousin I have known always. Her husband, another eternal in my life, says you need to watch your pets, with all the Asians around. I look at him as he sagely nods his head. All around agree that Canadians need to come to the US to get medical care. They sit with their hands clasped in their laps, heads bobbing in agreement. Canadian health care doesn't work. They all say so. And the mother knows plenty of Canadians who need to come here to be treated. I comment that the mortuary business must be booming in Canada, since they can't get any treatment there. Four sets of eyes fall upon me, wondering where I came from, secretly wishing I would return to wherever that place is. I wonder as well. I wonder if this is real or if I am in the middle of a Salvador Dali painting. Perhaps I walked through the looking glass.
Absurdity in a hospital room. Awkwardness, discomfort, a continuance of a lifelong en guard. As I stepped into the hall to check my reality, I gazed about for any lingering pet eating Asians and was pretty sure I heard an errant 'eh' escaping one of the patient's rooms. Must be a lucky Canadian, thinks me. One less for the mortician.
In every family there is that one, the one that doesn't fit. The one that makes the rest look at their feet as they shuffle them around, moving some invisible object to and fro. That one would be me. Usually this person in a family has some prison stories, a bunch of piercings and a friend named Spike, the prison tattoo artist. I have the ability to think critically. They would prefer Spike.
How do you like your tea; in a cup or in a bag dangling from your hat?