SUNS
Since the surgery, I have had a reoccurring dream that my tonsils turn into tiny golden suns.
How many years it has been, I cannot recall; long enough for me to have forgotten the operation itself, long enough for the remembrance of the pain to have receded, and yet not long enough for my mind to release it, to allow it to float away, unmoored.
Each time the surgeon is snapping on his gloves as he enters the room, sharp silver instruments jingle-jangling in his pockets. He administers the anesthesia, but I can still hear and see him, as he pries my mouth open with his fingers and scrapes at the inside of my throat until spit-blood trails trickle out of the corners of my mouth and pool onto the table. When he does finally cut them free, he holds them in his red right hand and for a moment I think they are eggs. I expect them to crack open and for some small animal to crawl into the harsh...