Nothing.

So this is what it's resorted to: sitting alone, a dog curled up between each leg, mouse moving haphazardly across a makeshift book-desk. The sound of construction on the canal out back competing with the TV in the next room. 


It's simply astronomical how alone I feel at this moment. 


In the years I've spent here, nearly 3,000 miles from my mother and father, the space has never been much of a thought until now. In the hours following the accident, after Marco had guided me onto the couch and quiet finally settled, I was surrounded with the aftermath: Who was I supposed to call first? OPD or my insurance? Where was my car and purse? What was I supposed to do about the pain until I could get a prescription? How would the staff fair with my kids? What about my lesson plans, the worksheets, the activities? 


It had taken hours to determine I had survived relatively unscathed only to undo what little courage I had left in 15 minutes. 


I laid back and closed my eyes tightly, taking my mind to our porch in Puerto Rico. Feet hanging over the edge as a storm sweeps across the lawn, rain tangled with yagrumo leaves and red petals from my abuela's flamboyan. From within the house I can hear my mother's soft laugh as she sits with my father, the smell of fresh coffee slipping out along the kitchen's cool tiles. In the distance, lightening strikes an open expanse of the forest. I grasp desperately at the image and the peace it invokes, hoping to slip away into a dream and stay there awhile longer.


But the sound of rain is already fading quickly, the corners of the photograph folding in on themselves. I open my eyes, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars plastered to my brother's living room ceiling, prolonging all the calls and explanations. 


I wish more than anything, more than being back in that dream, that my mother could walk out from some door and run her hands through my hair. Whisper to me in Spanish that it will be alright, that I survived the worst. To take it one day at a time. I take a deep breath to find some resolve but begin to cough as the strain is too much for my sternum. 


I want to be strong, to know that in a few months this will all be forgotten and life will resume as it always has, but nothing comes to me aside from the aches and pains that I know will only be worse tomorrow. 


I take a shower and order Chinese. I put in Young Frankenstein and smoke a bowl, trying for some sort of normalcy. Some sort of relief, but like everything else, it doesn't come. 


The days following are hollow. Trekking between OPD and the impound leave me exhausted and bitter. I pay the fees to get my things out of the car which they won't allow me to see. Everything thrown into a dusty black trash bag, including my lunch and the empty case for the Vince Guaraldi CD I'd just bought a few days prior on Haight in the city. The guy said he couldn't get the engine to turn to spit it out, it was stuck in the dash for now. I wish I was well enough to be apart of Occupy Oakland, to bring about the change the city desperately needs. 


Instead I unpack the trash bag, throw away my lunch, and smoke another bowl. Checking my phone for texts or emails, some link to the outside world of friends I would hope would call on me. Reach out. 


Nothing. 


A few co-workers have checked in. My two site teachers bring me food on Thursday and homemade cards from the students. 


That was two days ago


Maybe people are busy. Maybe this is a result of all those walls I've built up thinking I didn't need anyone. Maybe I wasn't as good of a friend as I had believed to be. Maybe people are too lazy. Maybe they don't care as much as they say they do. I feel half compelled to take the battery out of my phone and disconnect completely, but I don't. I hope that maybe with enough time someone will call. 


I know there's something I should be doing. My doctor wants me to start taking physical therapy. Relying on the cane for my right ankle has left my back, neck, and shoulders weaker. But all I can imagine is how easy it would be to leave this place. Disappear again. Everyone would understand - I could blame it on fear, on the need to be with family to heal. Anything to escape this overwhelming sense of emptiness and failure. 


The kids. I can't leave the kids. Not without finishing what I've set out to do yet. 


I'm not sure how to move forward from this. How to fight the anger and disappointment in those who haven't stepped forward and the overwhelming desire to push everyone out all together, the wanting to leave California for good only to truly never look back again. How to avoid the thoughts of what could be different if only I had...


So this is what it feels like, to be alone. The small dog stirs, staring up at me for a moment before stretching and moving to the edge of the bed. Waiting. Coaxing me out from under the covers. I cradle her momentarily, taking in her smell and the saltiness of her coat before stepping out to make lunch for the both of us.