Freshly Butchered Meat

Freshly Butchered Meat, Emily Eibel

Things have been pretty spotty–I'll be the first to admit to that–and at this point I can't commit to anything regular, but...[stretches her arms and cracks her knuckles] it feels good to be typing in this tiny box again.

So there. The soup simmers on the stove and Piazolla accordions on the iPod. The rest of the house is quiet save for the occasional clanging pipes from the heater. It's Valentine's Day...or to be precise Valentine's evening. I've showered and changed to pajamas. This is it. And this is perfectly enough.

Well, there's more. A little bit more. My boyfriend is in bed. Watching telly with the wireless headphones on (how kind of him!) He, too, is in his pajamas...or whatever it is he wears to bed at night. The dog (all 60 pounds of him) is curled next to him. Around the bed are newspapers, comic books, empty water bottles, a couple dishes and some now-empty pill bottles. You see, this year, this holiday, is one of recovery, one of celebration-just-to-be-alive, one of transition from who we were to the better, stronger, more compassionate people we will become.

Because nothing changes one's perspective more than a hospital stay: with the rotating cast of characters even more sick and alone than you, with the never ending intrusions of staff whose full time job it is to equitably distribute the most intimate care to strangers, for the loved ones who sit by the bed quiet and inwardly anguishing, but holding hands and holding hands and holding hands until its all through.