I don’t want to die.
There is so much magic in the world, I’m discovering.
Palo Santo smoke and steam from lemon balm and mint curling up.
My neck hurts from a night spent sleeping, somehow, in the wrong position.
Not enough of a cradle for the nerves, bones, soft tissue connecting head with body.
There’s something caught in my throat. I don’t know what it is.
But it’s there. Every time I swallow for weeks.
On Thursday, a doctor will stick a camera deep into my throat to find out.
It’s probably fine.
But that’s what I thought the last time, when I was locking up my bike. My bike and helmet waited there outside. Inside, there was a man who knew already, before even I did, that there was cancer inside of me. Or, rather, a 65-75% likelihood of papillary thyroid cancer.
He was wrong.
It wasn’t that kind of cancer but another. And it was 100% there.
They cut it out after they slit my throat open.
I’m left with the scar I was hoping for.
And fear I was not.
I don’t want to die. I want to stay here for longer. There is more I want to feel and be and discover.
There’s more that I want to fold into myself.
To loop around and weave in and make whole.