My brother plays Nintendo

My brother plays Nintendo in the living room at my parent’s house, and I write on the laptop in my old bed in the same room that I grew up in. My oldest sister talks with my mother in the kitchen, and my father sits with my brother-in-law and godson watching TV in the living room. It occurs to me, at this point, that so much has changed in the years that I have lived. So much is on the horizon, where my eyes can vaguely see the emerging outlines of human drama laced with the inevitability of mortal tragedy.
My mother wears a beanie now, having abandoned her wig that covers a near bald head, at least at home. Chemotherapy is a stalking bastard; cancer is less welcome though, so cordiality is extended to the lesser of those demons. They are demons to watch. Worse, I am certain, to meet. For how long the chemo is welcome remains a matter of chemistry and numbers. I am not a numbers man, so I rely on second hand sources for my information. How fitting that seems. I major in journalism. (Irony: See life)
I write now in the room that I first remember knowing that I would one day die myself. I think I was twelve. It came over me as a tidal wave. I won’t lie. I was not so strong. I lied in a cold sweat that night, crying, praying to be the one child who did not grow up one day, who did not die.
It is true. Those who find that they are dying do bargain; they do deny. They tell themselves that they will be good, that they will be different and live their lives in a different manner. But they do still grow up, and they still do die from things like cancer or cholesterol or diabetes. They know, to their very souls, that this world will not last. So they sit and write a character or two on blank pages trying to make sense of it, although it really doesn’t ever, and they play video games that pass the time and divert their minds. They drink coffee and talk or watch TV and “learn a thing or two” about something, or they go to sleep and dream of something better.
Maybe that is the point though, if there is one. What else is there to do? We’re here, so why not give it all a shot, as “corny” (and unpopular to some) as it sounds. “No one gets out of here alive,” my mother told me… or was that from a song? And moments pass no matter who we are.

Andrew Venegas
San Jose
SJSU
poetry