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Post-Op Here is his tremble, his wife, his own feeble gait, the eloquent patience of the hours by her bedside as though he were the piece of her gone. If only she'd asked sooner about winds and rains that did mean a storm, it might have spared surgery. He imagines that now in a dream as he dozes how acorns could rise from ground to branch... while in her dream all is chalk, the cliff, faces, sky, the long white parts of night, till the ache returns in the way it does, flies in closer swoops, its crow cawing intrusion through the dormant thicket of a narcotized fog, like the oxygen hissing steams of real breath, that which enlivens, turns blue blood red, not those "healing breaths," not the Zen inhalations of incensed rooms without siderails that seem so far away now, so irrelevant. He knows he has many reasons to be angry and many reasons to be sad though he cannot remember what they are. But he can remember through six decades of archives, the first crawls of their love, the many broths and agars that have grown it. He wishes that love to be like today's small suture knot, deep in her pain, for it to be that necessary, irreversible, and unobtrusive... as it dissolves into its host.
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