Eclipse
Many years ago, I was in the hospital. I was in the hospital because they had to operate on my lungs. I was home for a while. Then I would go back to the hospital. I was going back and forth. When I was at home, I knew I had to go back. It was just a matter of waiting.
Cortisone
I have another follow-up exam tomorrow. Every four to six months, I have one. I'm not scared. Or rather, I am. I'm claustrophobic, and I'm terrified of the MRI tube. I'm more afraid of the MRI tube than I am of the idea of still having the tumor. Tumors don't require claustrophobic tubes. They require cortisone instead.
Beer, Sport, Work, Women
Like when I'm with the fathers I have to stay with. Dinner table. Mothers and fathers. I'm on the wrong side of the table. I always feel like I'm on the wrong side of the table.
But I repeat myself: I’m a man. My body tells me I’m a man. Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know.
So… what is a man?
Beep beep beep
From the car, I watch the mountains towards the lake disappear into the clouds. They're sliced off. The peaks have vanished. They're somewhere. Suspended.
Fingers on the wall
I join the queue and follow their cars. It's raining outside and my windshield wipers must be broken. They move but leave a smear on the glass. I can only partially see the cars in front of me.
The roads we're on are full of speed limits. Even the car is warning me about speed checks, and I hope they don't accelerate too much as we head to the restaurant.
What do you see in the mirror?
Shut in my house because of the excessive heat outside, I go to the bathroom in the semi darkness.
While I clean my face, in the mirror I meet an old man who looks at me and asks for something. Someone who wants to give a sense to these days that fall somewhere.
— Look at you. What do you see in the mirror?