Heart

My job is details, disconnected and disparate. Takes a mental glue to string them together and keep them all in the air. Hard to learn, easy to do once learned, habits formed. I really can spot a Jakes from a Mosquito at a distance. A tonsil clamp from a pean. Small differences, all for different purposes. I know the difference between an SH and an X-1 needle on a 2-0 vicryl, undyed. Know which are monofilament, which braided, and which is useful for what, and how short to cut each, which absorbable, which not, swedged on or pop-off. Automatic, hardly have to bother my brain about, the reflexes know. Seventeen years in the OR, and I damn well better have this by heart.

Just as I handle bottles when I visit Epic Brewing, as the potter I once was. I know when something breakable is secure, and when not. As I once slung books with confidence. Muscle memory, balance, assurance.

Scraped loose paint on the front porch facing this morning, will need some wood putty before I paint. So careful getting up on the ladder, slow, plodding. Not so high up as to be a danger to myself, still soft and steady. Only in the morning, only when D can come sit with me, his balance and arm in far worse shape. Soon enough, the bright, Caribbean blue.

Eleanor on the sofa as I sit beside her, she reaches out a paw to touch me. We go slowly, time and more time and plenty of time. Trust must be layered on, decoupage-like, patiently. As D earned my wary trust, as we earned Moby's, so we must do for Eleanor. Or Aliénor. Another mystery. No hurry. Eternal now.