"Who the hell is Kaylene?" Nick once said when he had been talking to her for fifteen minutes.
I laugh about it still.

I'm playing memory games with little pieces I forgot and I forget. Maybe I'm trying to categorize tonight, like Elijah Wood in "Everything is Illuminated", sticking things in ziploc bags and stapling them to the wall.

Number one: the smell of the really awful coffee we made at the hospital, and just how the air felt at one in the morning there. I would dip Lorna Dunes in the coffee and try to stay awake, charting vitals. How heavy your eyelids feel when you know you'll be up til 7:30 a.m. The dinging bells of the call lights. Making small talk about Texas with John. He was one of those people I got to know so well. Like when you know everything they're going to say next and all their jokes, and what makes their heart feel heavy when they wake up.

Number two: How I would feel driving to the hospital. Awful. It was dark and the air was hard. But how I would feel driving home; like I had changed the world. And I miss that feeling. I miss that direction and how it was who I was. And how I hated it.

Number three: Starting at Chase. It was hot and smelled good and it was easy to park, and I felt older. Going to the U and the awful headaches, and learning how to put my arms and legs on in the morning and having the most complicated relationships of my entire life, and how easily it all fell together. Learning how to just turn off how I feel: priceless.

That's all and so much for tonight.