My body is healed, my spirit is mended.

In the waiting room, at the appointment, there are five framed photographs hanging on the wall. Four are bright and colorful. Farms, a field, a tropical waterfall. Each spilling azure skies and multi-hued shocks of green into the white room.

None of these capture my interest, really. The fifth one does.

A black and white photo of a suburban city block. Buildings linking one side of the sidewalk. Neatly spaced trees on the other. Leaf-less trees with winter fingers.

Someone stood in the distance, someone far and unidentifiable. That’s where I went when they put me on the drip. A place alone in the snow.

When I open my eyes, all I feel is relief. I read stories about people throwing up, being disorientated. The nurse notices my giddiness and I can tell she thinks it’s the IV talking. But the needle was already removed by one of her colleagues.

I like the way she calls me love.

“Ginger-ale or Coca-cola, love?”

I kiss who’s waiting to escort me home and assume kissing in lobbies of places like this where people have surgery isn’t very common. I don’t commonly have surgery though, and I never ask for favors.

I guess in a way this is all unfamiliar. It makes me wonder why I have dejavu.