By Kathie Giorgio
Even after sharing what could be good news, the doctor still clarifies. “Your husband is not out of the woods yet,” he says. “He is in the woods. Deep, deep in the woods. All he can see are the trees.”
I look at you then, lying in your hospital bed, sheets like snow—crisp, clean, cold. White blanket. White pillow. Winter. So different than the red that surrounded you when I first came upon you in the ER, red, like the leaves of autumn. In winter, you are motionless. You are alone in the forest, and you make no sound. The skin between your eyebrows puckers and so I call your name and your skin smooths every time.
I worry that you are lost in the woods. I call your name, over and over.
But I hope the forest you are in is beautiful. I hope the green is bright. I wish for birdsong. The flight of a sandhill crane, the trill of a sparrow. The flash of a deer. A stream, with impossible golden fish. The sun in the trees, that little bit of good news. A daffodil in the middle of all that green.
I don’t know then that you will, at first, find your way. My voice guides you, calls you home. I don’t know then that, after reaching for me, you will turn, look over your shoulder, and return to the forest. Go back, even after your memory reappears like the sun after an eclipse. After you manage to walk up two flights of stairs to our third-floor deck and you sit in the sun with a smile that not only rivals the sunlight, but makes the sun seem as small as that daffodil. As small as that good news felt, on the day of snow and forest. On the deck, you are surrounded by our flowers. We move into spring.
Oh, the glow of your smile. Your skin smooth. Your eyes on me.
But you return to the woods and you lose your way. Even though I call your name. Over and over. Until I have no voice left. You look over your shoulder, glow that smile, and then you’re gone.
I hope the woods are beautiful. I hope the sun comes back. There is no summer. Oh, to see your smile.