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Melissa DeAmaral

Every 10 minutes or so, a group of young men enter the hospital
On this chilly day, the typical attire is a cap under a hood
The worn-out fabric drapes over the tall, skinny figures
They walk with a loose and casual confidence

Older men also walk in with wool vests
Their wives in zipped-up hoodies and long-sleeved fleece jackets
They all look a little disheveled, the older ones
The men have greying stubble on their cheeks
One woman's hair flies in the wind, in her face
She grimaces

The young men are a lot happier
One wears a leather jacket
They walk in threes or fours, smiling, talking
Their optimism intimidates me, or maybe it's their numbers
They're almost too skinny, looking stretched-out

They almost look formidable against the long stretches of concrete
The four-story walls of brick
The crowded parking lots
All of this architecture and walkways for cars
If you grow up under these things, you push back
You push back in your walk, in your talk, in your group

Even in the small stagnant room, outside the window
You see the muffled bustle on an overcast day
The clatter of plates in the kitchen
The chatter of visitors and hospital personnel
I am quiet
I listen, and enjoy my grandmother's company

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