Nora Sun

The Consult

My husband and I can’t agree
on what time it is. I am not medical—it’s just
the way I’m wired. It’s
the dogs—one’s almost paralyzed. One day
you’re holding this shining, plump orange
of a life. Then the hurricane comes.
When they hook me up to my machine,
I count all the things that don’t belong to me:
Gerunds, gifts from God, a family-
sized Jeep leaving the lot, tiny
tumor cells like clipped fingernails—
geese in migration, interrupted. I
know, I know: It all comes down to
inflammation. To clouds full of snow waiting
their turn, plastic snowflakes suspended
from the window, the chattering teeth
of a keyboard thinner than the sleeves of
a hospital gown. Honestly,
I never cared much for grandchildren but
I finally paid off the house two months ago.
Did you know, it used to be 1973 and
my grandfather cured fevers by singing
Elton John? I still think about him
sometimes, when I listen to my machine hum.

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Nora Sun is an undergraduate student at Harvard University. Her favorite anatomical landmark is the iliac crest.