the appointment

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.

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