Drift and Spin

January. The little gas space heater inside the cracker box house is supplemented by one that is electric. It is January and cold, but the hiss of the heater makes me happy. I have nothing to do in the days before my surgery but wait. I love the cold air in the afternoon sunlight. Everything is diamond bright, the tall grasses in the fields sparkling beneath the deep blue. I am flooded with emotions, not about anything, but everything. I just feel. I am full.

These are the last days and nights in the little house. My father and I say nothing about that. It is our way. The perfect days pass, my father coming home in the cooling air and the deepening light of the short winter days. I remember the days he came home from work when I was young, when we lived in Ohio, when I was four or five. He would bring things, silly little gifts like candy or the big, soft pretzels he loved to smother in mustard.

I am surprised by the people who show up the night before my surgery. My mother and father are there, of course, but other people come, too. I am happy and embarrassed by it. These are my college friends, not people my parents know. They sit in the background awhile, then tell me they will see me in the morning. Awkwardly, I say goodbye. It is Friday night. The room begins to empty. The last to leave is a girl I've met at school. We've talked, but that is all. She tells me she will come back to see me. Then she, too, is gone and I am alone.

The nurses make their rounds. The lights are off, but there is a soft glow from the hallway. Outside, there is dark. I drift and spin, drift and spin dreaming crazy hospital dreams.