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It comes like a slip in the day~ a blue stillness, a pause I didn’t ask for but must walk through. The operating room is bright, too bright, as if the world has been pared to its cleanest edge. A feather rests on the tray~ not real, but the thought of one: light, soft, bound to air the way I am bound to this hour. Memory stirs~ the half-dream drift of all I’ve lived through, all I’ve held, all I’ve let fall. Peace is not loud here. It is a small pulse in my wrist, a breath that says I am still in the world, even now, even in this unexpected place. And when I wake, the light has changed. The day has moved on. But something in me has learned the quiet art of returning.
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