NEON PLASTIC BRACELETS by Brianna Boyse “I cannot bear weight, but I can write.” A smile pours into the lines of Darlene’s face like fresh tar into cracked cement. She propels her wheelchair to the drawer beside her hospital bed and retrieves a pile of crinkled papers. “I’ve no real place to write them though. I’ve been using the back of the menu that comes with each meal, piecing my ideas together from breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” I run to bring her notebooks. “When I lie waiting for the nursing staff to get me out of bed, I plan the stories in my head. Lately, it’s a murder mystery set in a hospital. I haven’t sorted out the characters yet,” Darlene’s train of thought trails off as she thumbs through the fresh pages. I leave as the physiotherapist works to get Darlene walking on her fractured leg. *** Sometimes, leading bingo feels like a sermon, the fluorescent bleach-soaked dining room the chapel. My prize bin carries only dollar-store toiletries and cheap plastic baubles, but the patients grip them with urgency and protectiveness, no different than sacred relics unearthed. Perhaps more valuable than the flimsy combs and travel-sized tissues are the quiet, anticipatory moments before my next call–the moments brimming with a tangible yearning for what has yet to come. In this way, I am a preacher. “O66!” Chips clatter together: our holy choir. “B4!” Eyes close and hands clutch together, hanging onto my next call: a collective prayer. “Bingo!” One prayer is answered. Darlene carefully selects two neon plastic bracelets from the prize bin, tucking her own hospital I.D. band beneath the sleeve of her gown. There was a sense of lost dignity in wearing your name and birthdate on your wrist: a morbid little accessory, a reminder of our maimed flesh and bone.
Variety Pack: Issue IV
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