Word vomit

Jubilee garden.

If I stretch my arms out far enough I can graze the edges of my grief with my fingertips, pushing it away to make room for my mother’s grief, which she is unable to hold back as it crashes against her relentlessly. Nothing will ever be the same again.

I stumble through the hospital corridors with a cold coffee in my hand, desperately seeking a morsel of comfort. I see a sign that says “Jubilee Garden.” I quicken my pace as I make my way deeper into the belly of the hospital. Right. Left. Left. Right. The signs continue to taunt me. Jubilee Garden. Where the fuck are you?

And suddenly I’m there. I crumble down onto a sad patch of grass. I look around. Children in wheelchairs with scarves wrapped around their bald heads; old people with walkers and IV drips circling the grounds. Too much laughter; too much sickness.

The sun does not nothing for me. Nothing will ever be the same again.

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