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Patients in and out within the backdrop of muted rose walls, blue carpet, 
dark wood and purple plaid textiles. As faces changed, colors clashed. 
One young girl wore scarlet shoestrings and a gold skirt topped by a 
fuchsia tee. Nurses passed quickly back and forth, wearing deep plum 
and teal with neon purple latex gloves; Van Gogh in motion. Names
called out, processing a human throng in a sterile environment. Seats 
for sixteen. Each one waited . . .feet tap, tap, tapping; magazine pages 
flipped before un-focused eyes. A TV blared. Cups of bitter brew—held 
in lifeless hands—grew cold and bitter.

Bill's name was called. I stood up. His doctor smiled, "He did great," he
said, and led me into a small room. He explained details of the procedure 
and handed me an enlarged color photo, a glossy print depicting surgery.
As I stared at my husband's insides, he said, "This is for your family album."

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