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3rd of May

It’s the 3rd of May. It’s free comic book day. Historically one of the best days of the year for me.

It’s the 3rd of May. I’m sitting in the ER in a room listening to the static hum of a tv, the hastened pace of new balance sneakers, and the whispers and cackle of nurses.

It’s the 3rd of May. My mom and sister are both at work.

It’s the 3rd of May. My best friend woke up and ran errands early this morning so that we could goto the free comic book day event at Vault of Midnight.

It’s the 3rd of May. I’ve always hated the smell of hospitals. I can deal with the dated sea-foam blue paint on the cabinets. But the smell is pin pricks in my brain.

It’s the 3rd of May. Last night my Dad and I watched the Blackhawks win a playoff game. My Dad watched Patrick Kane score a breakaway backhand and was stunned at how flawless he weaves through defenders. He kept comparing him to Jordan. He tells me about never being a big fan of Hockey. He recalls his memories of going to free farm league hockey games as kid. His voice rings of regret for not watching Hockey.

It’s the 3rd of May. About two hours ago I sent a text to my best friend to postpone plans for free comic book day.

It’s the the 3rd of May. My Dad and I are about to leave for free comic book day early, so that I can go with him now and Eric later.

It’s the 3rd of May. Sports center is playing in the room next to me.

It’s the 3rd of May. My Dads calf is swollen. His knee starts to buckle while we walk out the door to Vault of Midnight. The doctor on call fears it’s a blood clot or bursted cyst in his knee. I cancel all plans and drive him to the ER. My Dads face has grown tired of growing old. I can’t look him in the eye. Grant it I’m driving. But if stop focusing on the road, I’m afraid I’ll become useless.

It’s the 3rd of May. My nose fills with snot and my eyes become puffy. I close the curtain to my room while Dad has a ultra sound.

It’s the 3rd of May. Two days ago was the a 30-something anniversary of my Moms Fathers death. Four months ago my Dads Father died. Two hours ago I was reading a Jason comic on my phone while my Dad got dressed for the ER.

It’s the 3rd of May. My dad and I are complaining about the Fantastic Four casting while he lays on gurney. When he shifts to the right the bed makes frat noise. He laughs when it happens. He starts shifting around making the bed fart like Peter Frampton made guitars talk. I’m able to look him in the eye for 2 seconds at a time.

It’s the 3rd of May. It’s free comic book day and all I want is to be 7 again. I want my old bed back. I want my Dad to sit on the edge of my bed near my night light. I want to pull a comic out of a paper bag and hand it to him. I want him to read Cyclops word bubbles in his Scott Summers voice. I want him to marvel at the artwork and brag about his Jim Lee X-Men first printing variant covers. I want him to kiss me on the forehead and tell me I’m strong. I want him to give the confidence to cut the night light off.

It’s the 3rd of May. I’m watching my Dad doze off as we wait for ultra sound results. My eyes fight too stay dry. My hands stave off trembling. I stay strong for him.