Christmas in the hospital sucks. She left this as a present, “This is a Christmas Cactus, just for you; get well now, you hear?” Her hand slipped out of mine like a slack rope over a pulley.

Nurses, doctors, medications all change at dawn. So does the light on my Christmas Cactus. It glows; I’m going to get a sponge bath soon and then the oatmeal. Doc will come around on his rounds. If it’s jello for desert and oatmeal for breakfast, why should I think this doc is caviar? How do I know he’s not just a piece of shit, just like the jello and the oatmeal? He keeps looking at his watch. This needle in my carotid artery hurts still, can’t they fix that? What kind of junk is it that they are sending into my brain? How do I tell the difference between me and the shit they are sending into my brain? I don’t want oatmeal, I don’t want jello. I want light, I want the cactus to glow forever, just so.

Sponge bath – what a dumb name for something so warm, wet, and tender. Forget jello, forget oatmeal; oh, here, here, where that needle is stuck into my neck. She came back, after work, and stroked my forehead, softly, her hand dropping behind my ear. She whispered something that I did not quite hear.

Why are you touching my skin? You have your own skin.   Unknown

George's selection of 66 Phlogs is available in print from People's Press.

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