Neurosurgery and Sneezing

Just back from the Doc, who jimmied out 15 staples from the handsome curve of B's brown, and powerful back. It will scar rakishly, we said. We shuffle around the neighborhood in the evening. People jog by. He walks like he's in a paper gown, avoids curbs, and will not turn his head when I say, "Oh! The Millers painted their shutters that green. What do you think?" 25 minutes to walk a mile ."Thousand Year Old Man" and "Stabs from a Molten Dagger", he says, are the names of the bands he is currently in. He is looking forward to being able to sneeze, really big sneezes.

Not the Good Kind of Twain

Last Wednesday's spinal surgery has cleaved dear B in twain - and not the good, steamboat pilot, humorist kind of twain, but the gashed muscle, sweat on your upper lip, Vicodin chewed from a fist in the dark, drooling over the sink at three am, incendiary pain, scary pain, shredding, tearing down the once strong-still beautiful left thigh, kind of twain. So beautiful that thigh.