Bleeding black ink
I spill words as my body leaks blood
On hospital gowns
Inking the floor with my essence
I wonder if the OR staff made wishes
When they cracked open my breastbone
I remember long ago dinners
When wishbones were mysterious
Full of promises
Like wishing wells and shooting stars
Imagining untold fortunes of vague and impossible hopes
Now, I no longer feel the need to wish
Just cope
Taking each step in faltered stride
Wearing the determination of my years
And while I’m grateful for the good wishes of others
I have no expectation of magic
Or celestial intervention
Just faith in a good defense
And the resiliency of my own spirit
David Trudel © 2013
I wonder if the make a wish or if it is the standard wish that the patient recovers, your words make me think of you laid not on the operating table but on the christmas table with laden platters all around as the surgeons in scrubs and hats from crackers lean over and operate (yes I have issues but who doesn’t lol)
Hehehe, that’s partly what I was trying to convey Paula, glad you got it!