Quiet Rooms
It was 2 a.m. I was sleepless as usual. I didn’t know if it was the meds, anxiety after 9/11 or what, but darkness and I were pals once again. The sliver of moonlight dancing into the bedroom provided a silver pathway to the bathroom, where I took another melatonin. Pills and more pills.
Each night I would dream about running or golfing. Such sweet mobile dreams until I would awaken and feel the log of my leg grounding me to the present, reminding me that for the time being, I was going nowhere.
My knee strayed away from my body, like it no longer belonged to me. Still somewhat swollen from my surgery a few weeks ago, it lay there awaiting direction, like a lost soldier. I had just gotten my cast off, and my leg was but a shadow of what it used to be. Gone was the sleek muscle that helped me perform tasks beyond my 48 years. It looked like a barren branch in winter, anticipating a heavy snow.
I looked at the tracks of my incision in the moonlight. A long pink caterpillar went from my thigh to my calf. My brother-in-law called it a zipper. I wish I could zip it up and be on my way.
I lumbered into the bathroom and sat, painfully grateful I didn’t have to make yet another deposit into the bedpan where the cold plastic cut into my shriveled behind. My upper arms had gotten quite strong from going up and down the stairs by lifting my body into a…
