Sun Spots

It's been over two weeks since I noticed a small scab on my forehead that isn't healing. In his clinic room, Dr. Jackson takes a quick look, says "Sunspot, let's get it off."

While he's busy putting scalpel, needles and thread on a tray, I manage to stammer, "Is that another word for skin cancer?"

"No, no," he says pushing closer so that he can get at it. "Here, just a bit of freezing."

It's not my forehead, but time that seems frozen as he cuts it off, drops it into a plastic vial and sews me up.

"Just a tiny piece of skin, that. We'll send it to the lab and I'll want to see you next week to take the stitches out."

"And I guess to give me the report?"

"Don't worry, it's good you came right in. My best friend waited 6 months and it was too late. He died at 52."

On the drive home, words flash through my mind ... don't worry ... tiny piece of skin ... cancer ... died at 52 ... waited six months ...

How long was it on my forehead before I noticed it?

I walk into the living room and say "Hi" to my daughter. She returns a "Hi dad" but doesn't look up from her reading.

Everything seems just as I left it an hour ago. Yet, everything seems different.

stretched out
in a sunspot
the black and white cat

R. Rasmussen, Bottle Rockets, 19, 2007.