I'm at a loss without a mailbox.
As long as I can remember, I've waited for the hour--or the day--the mail was delivered. Not that I often received anything. But this, to me, has been the definition of hope. Something good could be on its way even now.
But I have no forwarding address, and I don't know how long I'll be here. So I know that no mail is coming to me.
The hospital is temporary--we hope. Becky's been staying here, but three of us in a room is tight. I'm not accustomed to luxury, but I also find it hard to sleep in a chair. I suggest getting a hotel room, but that would be temporary, too.
"But an apartment will take time to look for, and deposits, and maybe a lease…" I sound like the whiny sister.
In the end, we agree that I'll try to get a room at the chain place a few blocks down the street. Becky will stay with mom until she goes into surgery. I'll come back in the morning, and we'll take it from there.
It's a pain to be negotiating all these annoying details, but it's a relief, too. Something concrete to think about, to do.
And the hotel has a business center, so I can send email to the internet café in Puerto Williams, let the Chief know my address. Maybe I can send mail to Sevario, too. This is all new to me.
All of it.