on gratitude

Music: Steve Hauschildt: Tragedy & Geometry (2011)

The machine, the box with blackface and red led numbers and lights, beeped incessantly, the sort of pressing electronic screech that refuses to let you make a pattern in the sound, that willful sonic moiré that comforts; the peace of a patterned rhythm.

"Do you have someone to call, a significant other or loved one?"

"No, not in this state."

"A friend?"

"Well, yeah. But everyone's at work."

"If you have someone to call, now is the time. We'd like someone to be here when you come out of anesthesia."

"You're going to operate?"

"It's likely. This is the time to have someone here."

Three years ago the nurse's certitude was, in the end, thankfully dismantled with an exception. I didn't have the operation. Hours later, the screech was replaced by a rhythm, not of beeps, but of the shuffling feet of friends in and out of a antiseptic room. Friends who, I hope, never get see my hair that dirty again.

I am thankful for my loved ones who are determined to make rhythms and forge patterns out in the blaring-Nons of the past, and the gaping nothings sure to come. Without you, I'm just a dead turkey.