The Pub

Ice

Carla Albert

Every day dragged.

Before going to work,
Ma left him breakfast.

Thirsty, he called
My cell phone, having grown tired
Of yelling for me
Over and over until
I awoke in the next room.

Every morning,
I knew who was calling, disrupting
My sleep, before I saw the name
“Dad” on my phone.

The air weighed
As much as he did.

The sheets stuck
To him in places.

Sweat beads drooped down
The side of his face—
Settling in his growing beard,
Sliding down his chin.
His eyes looked more round
Each day as the skin
On his face became tighter.

He asked me
For apple cranberry juice
With ice.

I walked in a haze
To the kitchen,
Grateful to God
(If there still was
A God)
That he did not
Request beer.

Rarely
A glass of juice
Was finished.

When the ice melted,
He called for
More ice.

Carla Albert is a senior English writing major from Chicago, IL. She gets weird cravings - mostly for hot giardiniera peppers. Once she starts, she can't stop. It's really bad....