By Laura Grimes
It’s time to re-institute home visits by doctors.
I want to hear the doorbell ring and see the black bag. With a sweep of my motherly arm I would graciously show the caring soul to the outdated plaid couch, where Oscar/Dennis would be slouched back in a daze, his slumber roused by the sound of the bell. Oscar/Dennis would flicker open his eyes a slit but he wouldn’t move. His gray hoodie that hadn’t been changed for a few days would be pulled up over his ears, and the red fuzzy blanket would be flung over his long body that stretches from one sofa arm to the other. A couple of pillows would prop up his head. The white She Cat would be curled up on his legs in a lowercase e.
Even though it would be noon, the room would be dark. The blinds would not have been pulled, but there would be a small welcoming fire. A tall water bottle, a couple of untouched Ritz crackers and a tub with a half-inch of vomit would be on the coffee table.