A small procedure.
I am in the corner, in the room, on the chair that is reserved for parents and loved ones.
I see the box that contains non- sterile, ambidextrous, non-latex gloves. The tools. The tiny headlamp that she wears. The sutures, to stitch and hold together flesh, that will heal and grow and become new.
Bodies and souls. Hearts and minds.
The way that the light finds it's way on to all of us.
Biscuits and gravy. The list he makes of his favorite foods that I cook for our family.
Remembering that my need to cocoon increases in fall and winter months.
The awareness that sometimes it's easier to like a victim, than someone who is vocal and standing in their truth.
The dream that I have cancer. Smudge cat wakes me up and saves me from the end of the dream with his meowing.
How it's okay if you aren't okay.
The restless sleep that happens when you know you have to catch a flight, dispense an overnight med or can feel the full harvest moon.
The man who is knitting a cable blanket at the bench at the beach.
Following the magical thread.