Photo Opportunity

I often tell my parents that I wish

they would’ve taken a picture

of me while I was in a coma.

I often wonder what I looked like

The left side of my head, abundant

with curly, long brown hair

complimenting the right, a bald scalp

with tubes protruding.

It’s a picture I’ll never have assorted

in my series of scrapbooks

documenting the story of my life.

I often wish I had a picture of me lying

comatose in a bed at Allegheny General Hospital.

A hollow tube surgically attached

to the base of my neck, connected

to a respirator to facilitate breathing,

a bag behind me

filled with liquefied nutrients, resembling

a chalky paste

flow through a tiny tube

inserted into my stomach.

It would follow the picture

of the demolished burgundy Volvo

The picture Melissa gave me

The one that made Mike cry.

A memento of my life,

what use to be, the impact and the

aftermath.        My memories are

compacted within

the perimeters of that picture taken by police.

I only wish I had a few more.

My mom always frowns her disapproval

whenever I say, “You should’ve taken

a picture.”

She always believed I would recover,

refusing to listen to the doctors’ dismal

prognosis…      but

if she always knew I’d recover

why didn’t she take a picture?

didn’t she think I’d want one to add

to my collection? to document those weeks

I remained quietly in a coma?

The missing time randomly occupies

my thoughts, will always be a mystery to me

I do not have a picture.  I missed the ultimate

photo opportunity.