I have returned to the ward with my coffee My ward mates are whispering looking up at me with narrowed eyes I am chastised by the nurse with the cupcake hat for missing rounds no one told me about rounds that I was supposed to be there Two Bulgarian woman go in and out of the room four or five times a day I find it hard to tell them apart They are shaped like boxes This one dons a straw hat with a flower on it I look forward to these moments how gracefully she winds the rag around the squeegee how easily it traverses the tile it is a dance—fantasia the floor show My roommate has returned from surgery her mother and sister sit at the end of my bed whispering and waiting my roommate groans and mutters in her sleep the end of my bed rocks with their impatience I have had an argument with a nurse and I have been banished to the Arab section (they promise to bring me real coffee in the morning) There are ten beds in the new ward families bring offerings three times a day and peel oranges between and sleep next to the beds at night and in the aisles They are the lumpy shadows I trip over on the way to the bathroom I am a curiosity here I shall get fat on pastries dripping with honey—washed down with muddy coffee that bites the back of your throat Ah finally My exile is over I am back in my old room moved closer to the nurses desk This means they have scheduled my surgery Tzfat, Israel, 2001
Hiding Out