The trees are turning and the driver picks me up, takes me through the University campus to the hospital. As I open the door to get out, he leans toward me, “I hope you feel better soon.” I thank him for his sincere words, not bothering to tell him that I am not sick, but that this body I inhabit is the repaired, permanent version.
The hospital has been under renovation and there is a wooden ramp built up over the sidewalk leading to the entrance, and it is brand new. This dark, cave-like entrance, all concrete and steel and automobile exhaust, is broken open by the powerful redolence of the fresh, cedar ramp. The body knows this scent. Knew it long before there were Home Hardware stores. Unbidden, memories release.
Cottages on rocky islands.
The pine needle floor of a forest.
A twig snapping underfoot.
Skinny dipping at night, her skin glimmering beneath the water, our bodies stars.
All this, instantly recalled, each story expanding and leading to this moment.
And a large man wearing a Hamilton Tigers cap is watching me. He’s on oxygen support, too, and it is not clear if he is taking encouragement from me or the opposite. We nod at one another, both of us looking hard, trying to find what we need in the eyes of the other.
