L' Hospitalet

L’ Hospitalet was the last stop on the renfe 

a litmus test 

for the right direction,

though I never 

got off there-

always a few stops before. 

Winter on the way to L’Hospitalet wasn’t really cold, 

like in the North

and life above the renfe 

was as linear as life within;

time elongated itself across metal tracks, 

every stop 

was just a dot 

on a line.

In spring, I avoided the renfe

such inner bustle,

from the many comings and goings of passengers, 

wading on the edge of summer

and really, to tell you the truth 

I preferred the air outside.

Now, it’s winter again 

and I am further South, 

somewhere equatorial-

whatever that means-

there is no renfe, no linearity, high particulate matter

and everyone’s in a rush.

Yesterday my route changed, unwittingly

Got off at the hospital,

the shifa khana,

which locally translates into

place to heal;

a common last stop when there’s nowhere else to go.

Emergency room,

friends, cousins, children, parents-

interior beings- not inferior enough to be admitted in;

clinics, a cafeteria,

other extraneous things

all on ground level.

Went up some flights of stairs,

arriving,

in a short corridor

between convalescence and infirmity

called Intensive Care-

I don’t know what that translates to in Urdu or Catalan.

Still here today

it’s visiting hour,

and there seems to be more ahead:

maternity ward at the end of the corridor,

more first breaths than lasts,

and as I walk passed,

suddenly-

I think of

the long renfe trips 

towards L’ Hospitalet

and what they meant in spring,

always a few stops before.