In the Days Before Surgery

We look at the minute hand. Does the clock need new batteries? Has time stopped? There is no rushing from here to there, no one tracking the time. There is only this moment: eating, laughing, sitting.

(But there is also Thursday. We see it and look away from it, a distant storm cloud.)

I sit on the front porch and look out over the East Tennessee mountains, the deep green of July trees, the robins quarreling in the yard. In the backyard, I throw a football with the boys. We play a game at the kitchen table and goad each other on.

At night, when the house is quiet, the kids sleep stretched out on the living room floor like soldiers in a barracks. Others are on the couch, on the arm chair. The dog turns three times and finds a nook in between them. Family arrives from all over the country, sleeping in spare beds and in quiet corners. Lightning flashes against the blinds, far off in the distance, but there is no rain. Just another dry flash and quiet, far-off thunder.

The day before the surgery, I watch him wander the rows of his son’s garden. He examines the tomatoes, exclaims at the size of the peppers, asks if he can take a few jalapeños back to the house. He holds a baby duckling, new to the world. He grins and passes it to one of the grandchildren.

“Next year,” he says, “We’re putting paper down in the garden.”

“Next year,” he says, “We need to reseed the lawn.”

“Next year,” he says.

Next year.

Standing out in the yard, everyone is tender, wondering. The ripe tomatoes, a miracle. He moves up behind her and kisses the back of her head. She tears up. He hugs her and walks away quietly.

Time does not move.