Ten-Second Delay

SHE opens her eyes and stares at me. I kiss her on the cheek. “Good morning, love,” I whisper. Her eyes blinks, perhaps nine or ten times. And then she smiles. It takes her ten seconds to wear the smile, basing from the blinks of her eyes. A few more seconds lapses. Then she replies, “Good morning, dear.”

She is not on a webcam, transmitting from a very far distance. Neither is she communicating through a narrow data band with low kilobits per second. She's right next to me, lying on the bed where I am sitting.

Things have not been the same since the accident. She has not been the same since. Looking at her wrecked car, some people have sounded that she's so lucky to have survived. I'm thankful that she survived.

Her head must have suffered some heavy impacts - her physician has tried to explain - it somehow caused her brain to work slow. Though I've noticed, her memory is intact. She has not forgotten a thing.

She gets up and gives me a hug. I lightly stroke her back, from the base of her neck and down to her waist. Her hug lingers, about ten seconds longer than before. Living with her, I know that I have to get used to those ten-second delays. But I'm not complaining. Because the endearing little things that she likes to do, it is now like ten times magnified.

05/29/09