His wife was drowning.
She refused surgery for years
for fear of not waking up,
and he respected that.
But she was drowning.
So, she did get the valves—finally,
when the drowning became worse
than not waking up.
They came from a pig, he says,
raising his eyebrows.
She no longer drowns,
but she faints occasionally.
She’d rather have that.
She worries about what they may find,
so she will go with the fainting,
at least for now, he says,
turning to prune
the white rose bush.
Before I walk away,
I see the bush shiver
beneath the tenderness
of his hands.
First appeared in Rat’s Ass Review