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 light, into the cold, sterile room. Instead, like a magician, he causes them to flame and crackle, all red and gold, blinding to look at it. You will catch fire, I want to say, but no words come out, no sound at all, not even a rush of air. I forget that I cannot speak, that speech has been temporarily stolen away, that perhaps all of my power was in what the surgeon stole away.