This morning when Annie arrives,
she sees my mother through the glass slider
lying on the floor,
and even before she walks in the door
she calls 911.
Then she calls me.
I'm in the car making the same drive
I have made so many times —
from my office to my home.
On the phone with Annie.
The EMT. My sister. My husband.
A thirty minute drive in eighteen minutes.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing. Nothing.
Everything is fine."
Everything is not fine.
Ya ha llegado la hora.
Y vas al hospital.
Sí. Que sí. Que sí.
And my mother is saying
"No! Que no!
Que no me voy!
No me voy de aquí.
Tu eres Mala."
Mala means bad.
But more than bad.
It means your essential self is bad.
"Tu eres mala!"
But I'm not Mala.
I'm not.
