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Photograph, Still Life
8″ x 10″
Alight Sunroom
by Jordan Bernal
Basket full of fun
Bright flower petals open
Room alight with sun
Summer Blooms
by Camille DeFer Thompson
Abundant summer
Blossoms warm the sun-filled room,
Recall bygone days.
Subversive
by Lani Longshore
I’ve put sunflowers
in the sunroom
on the summer solstice
the pastor and the floral committee
are coming to tea
at four
they think I’ll behave
if I serve
at their pleasure
They don’t know
I can preach
with flowers
Touch
by Diane Lovitt
How many textures
Blinds, glass, stone, petals, wood, straw, grass
All want to be touched
The Sunroom
by Julaina Kleist-Corwin
I had the sunroom built
For a guest room
With a closet.
The only guest was me
One rainy night
Before I left.
Agreement to sell and
Go our own way
With no regrets
Except for my sunroom.
Tears mixed with rain
Goodbye dear space.
New owners welcomed me
To see changes
Joyful pledges
My sun-filled room abounds,
Added flowers,
Grace my heart.
The Sun Room
by Victoria Emmons
I groaned when the phone rang. News reporters had been hounding me all day about a trauma patient in a car accident. Plus, a local senior center was pestering me to buy a booth for their upcoming health fair. And a deadline was past due for an ad in the local LifeStyle magazine. “Hello, this is Marcia,” I said to the unknown caller. It was a nurse named Cynthia on 3-West who needed me right away to interpret for a patient named Fanta who I had helped before. There were days I wished no one knew I spoke French.
The elevator took me to the third floor. As I walked toward the nursing station, I stopped long enough to peer into The Sun Room. I could see Fanta a few feet away from me. We had met two days earlier. She stared into the plastic flowers on the table next to her hospital wheelchair, a mass of wiry, untamed curls encircling her dark face. Hers was a beauty blemished only by an uninvited illness. Fanta sat motionless, a worried boyfriend named Guillaume by her side. Other families around the room chatted with loved ones seated on comfortable yellow couches. A teenager old enough to obtain visiting privileges lovingly brushed her grandmother’s hair. The hospital had done its best to make the visitor lounge cheery.
I rounded the corner into the nursing unit and was greeted by a bevy of commotion heralding change of shift. Much like a well orchestrated ballet, nurses exchanged information. The patient in room 423 was bellowing again, a harried nurse told her replacement. Not to worry, she assured. The patient was demanding, but manageable. I watched as a young doctor corralled a seasoned nurse named Gloria about the status of his elderly patient in the room next door.
“Is he stable enough to be discharged?” the doctor asked. “At this point, I see no reason for him to stay.”
Gloria agreed with the doctor’s assessment, but worried that the patient had no assistance at home. A social worker was arranging for home care, she said. The doctor signed a discharge order and moved on to his next patient chart.
Cynthia, the petite, silvery-haired nurse assigned to Fanta, flittered about the nursing station like a butterfly trying to escape a collector’s net. She was beginning her shift and had seven other patients on her daily rounds. Distracted by a missing document in a patient record, she barked orders to a nursing assistant. The small woman dressed in burgundy scrubs was clearly in command.
My introduction to Fanta had been during a spinal tap procedure. Someone needed to explain to her what was going on. Her English was nonexistent and the staff had little patience. It was 1984 and the hospital relied on patient families and hospital staff to interpret. Fanta had no family. Her story of struggle and hardship landed her on a precarious boat traveling from Haiti to the southern tip of Florida one warm, breezy night. She was searching for a better life.
Cynthia turned around with a start when I tapped her on the shoulder. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“Hi. I work in community relations,” I said. “Remember me? My name is Marcia Dobson. You called me to translate again. You’re the nurse for the patient named Fanta, correct?”
Cynthia stopped and stared at me with laser focus. She narrowed her eyes into thin slits, assessing my worthiness.
“I was called in to translate for Fanta two days ago,” I said. “You know, she had that spinal tap. I was the person in the room helping her understand what was going on.”
Cynthia remained skeptical. She glanced down at my hospital identification badge.
“You speak French?” she finally said.
“Mais oui!” I replied in my best accent, smiling at her all the while.
I recognized Cynthia as the same nurse who had assisted the surgeon in conducting Fanta’s procedure. A flood of memories from that day filled my head. Fanta in pain, telling me in French that the doctor and nurse were treating her like a dog. I didn’t have the courage to translate that sentence to the doctor or Cynthia.
“Okay, then, let’s go into the office for a moment,” Cynthia said as she turned on her heels and walked toward a closed door. I followed after her, all the while wondering what I had to translate today. I had a million other projects sitting on my desk awaiting my attention.
She opened the door of the small office as I followed her in and closed the door behind us. She did not offer me a chair, nor did she sit down herself. Instead she began to bark out orders to me in the same manner she had approached the nursing assistant. I was merely another of her minions lined up to assure quality patient care took place. She gave me my marching orders in only three minutes, all the time she had. I stood there listening, but not fully comprehending what I was to say.
“Be sure to talk to her boyfriend, too,” Cynthia added. “He needs to know what is going on. He needs to take precautions.”
“Well, I’m not really sure I’m the best person to deliver this news,” I stammered, hoping to be relieved of the duty.
“You’ll do just fine,” Cynthia said and opened the door to leave.
I stood there for a few minutes trying to compose myself. I didn’t even know the word for AIDS in French, nor blood products. I did know that Fanta was waiting for me in The Sun Room, waiting for me to deliver a death sentence.
Visual Arts Argue
by Linda Todd
The Winterfest celebration is almost underway. Vice President Patricia and Programs Director Tara rush to hang the two quilts Tidepools and O Christmas Tree on stands behind a table as members begin milling around the conference room.
“Hey, Tidepools. Remember me from quilt circle?” O Christmas Tree said.
“Yes, how could I forget? How are you?” said Tidepools.
“Finished, as you can see. Looks like we’re both entered in the Winterfest celebration. I heard there were twenty-five visual art entries.”
“I know and I can’t wait to see how many writers I inspired.”
“I’m sure I inspired more writers than you.” O Christmas Tree flipped up one of his lower corners to show off his green, gold, and blue colors. “Everyone knows abstract art is more inspiring than scenes from the sea.”
“What are you talking about? Have you never heard of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea?”
“Who hasn’t? But I represent the biggest holiday of the year. Did you know that stores stock their shelves sometimes six months in advance of Christmas Day?”
Tara poses the arms and legs of Yo Pumpkin, a fabric gourd, in the center of the table.
“What are you guys yammering about?” said Yo Pumpkin flapping his arms into a more comfortable position. “I’m going to garner the most writings. Who could resist my bowling ball body and lanky arms and legs? With my orange, gold, and yellow colors, I can dress up any sofa or chair for fall. Did you take a good look at my cute face?”
“We’re all made of fabric, so of course one of us will have the most writings,” said Tidepools showing off her starfish and sea palms panel. “Our seamstresses spent hours upon hours drawing our patterns, choosing the right material, and stitching us up.”
“You’re right, Tidepools,” said O Christmas Tree. “Our creators did spend a lot of time making us. But I will be rewarded with the most writing pieces.”
Patricia and Tara arrange the two framed photographs Somewhere Out There and The Sunroom on the table.
“Wait just a minute,” said Somewhere Out There. “What writer could resist my starbursts of light and tree branches reaching toward the sky? I’m sure I inspired all the science fiction and fantasy writers out there. You watch. I’ll have the most writings.”
“Stop squabbling over there,” said The Sunroom. “It doesn’t matter how many writings we inspired. The purpose of art is to tell a story and evoke an emotion. I heard at least fifty people made a reservation for the meeting today. That’s one hundred eyeballs looking at us. All of us. I don’t know about you all, but I’m honored just to have been chosen for display.”
“I agree with The Sunroom,” said Tidepools. “Winterfest is a celebration of the members and all their creative endeavors, not just their writings. Remember, humans are busy creatures.
Some of the members may have wanted to write something, but didn’t have the time.”
“Look over there,” Yo Pumpkin said as he stretched out one of his floppy arms and pointed toward the opposite corner of the room. “They’re setting out the snacks. Smell that popcorn? Wish I could have some.”
“Quiet,” said O Christmas Tree. “President Jordan is at the podium. The meeting will start soon. Then we’ll find out I am the winner.”
“O Christmas Tree, didn’t you listen? We’re all winners,” said Tidepools.
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