Resolutions, May 1966
Jack lay in his hospital bed, trying to ignore the ropes and pulleys and hanging sand bags keeping him trussed up while his bones slowly, goddamn, so slowly, built themselves back up into some kind of working form. He watched the sky outside, white with heat he couldn't feel, pass, unchanging, as he tried not to feel the manipulations of the nurses and orderlies and whoever the hell these people were, and tried to shut out the forced cheerfulness of his family. Family. How in the hell did the Newsomes become his family. Most days he tried to be friendly and optimistic, but today his resolutions failed him. He looked over at the farm machinery calendar Fayette had hung on the wall. Days X'ed off every time she came to visit, bringing too-bright smiles and too many plans for what his and Lureen's life was going to be like when he came home. June 24th, when the doctors said he'd be ready to leave. When he'd start his life over. Get ready to be a father. Get used to rodeo being something he'd never do again. Hang that calendar in the garage and mark the days off on his own. One by one until 1966 was over. Tried to believe next year would be better. Closed his eyes and tried to forget, everything.