The oxygen machine is noncommittal blue. It’s encased neatly like a suitcase you’d watch float by on a conveyor: Quietly, at the airport, hoping to see yours soon.

It’s friendly in shape, no hard edges. 

The wheels are situated well under the breadth of the rectangle so you trip only on the context. There’s one small nozzle for the friendly plastic tube that comes in the antiseptic wrapper. And there’s one little gauge for your fumbling hands to pretend to know how much is enough air for the dying. There’s a thoughtful handle on top so it’s effortless to push across the floors your life was laid on. And then conveniently pick up its compact and lightweight frame as you walk, a stranger, up a flight of stairs imprinted in your cells. It plugs in next to the bed simply, like the alarm clock, the phone charger, the lamp and the pills. So many pills. The utilitarian small metal switch flicks on so assuredly that it distracts you from the hum the simple little blue suitcase makes; elbowing its new sound into the concert of the cacophony of dying.


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