July

I’m sitting in Phipps conservatory now, losing track of time and my place in it, catching my reflection in the lithe glass sculptures and floral scents. It’s one of the only places where I feel like I’m bordering on peace. The way Alaska borders on Russia. It’s close enough. There are children circling empty strollers everywhere as their parents struggle to herd them through. Turning right, right, right, again, again, again. I’m not part of the flow. I stand outside it, with the gardeners. They see the garden for what it is, nature, but curated nature, almost an art form. Some people would prefer not to think about the work that goes into it, but I think it makes it more beautiful. It’s the fact that so many people put their work into arranging each flower into the perfect orientation. I think the gardeners think that way too. They see how far the flowers have come, how they’re better together, symbiotic symbols.

My father made it through his heart attack. The paramedics commended me for starting quality CPR so soon after my father went down. They said that was why he lived. I’ll never forgive myself for that, for doing the right thing. But he was softer afterwards, quieter. He started taking medication for depression after they released him from the hospital. My mother tried to remove anything sad from his path before he saw it. He definitely wasn’t allowed to read the news. Sammy didn’t get to go to boarding school for music. But he arranged to spend most of his nights at his friends’ houses. He always had a change of underwear and a toothbrush in his backpack.

When I come home, my father stares at me now like he stared at those paramedics who rescued my brother. And my mother calls me when she’s worried now. She also calls me when she gets paper cuts or stubs her toe.

“I don’t understand why you can’t tell me what’s wrong. You’re basically a doctor, right?” she says.

Which is when I remind her how many years still stand between me and a medical degree. “Ask me again then,” I say, hoping I will come up with an excuse by then to not be responsible for her every ailment.

My brother is coming to visit my university next week, to check out the classes and activities. I won’t be here when he becomes a freshman. We just missed each other. He’s going to be a professional musician, he said to me the other day. I think I’ll be a professional one day, I said in response.

I’m up now. I’m walking through Phipps turning right, right, right. I’m tired of watching the dug up dirt. Instead, I watch the children circle their strollers, orienting themselves in their familial orbit. I take it one step at a time, forward and right. My hurricane and I, we’re part of the flow.