The Gash

 When I was a college student majoring in art, I found it deep and artistic to take pictures of animals that had been killed on the road. It's a common thing to do when you're that age. An unflinching look at death. 

I think no less of anyone who does that now; it's a common stage. When you get older, you develop a liking for different things. (I'm in my early sixties.) The movies you watch, the books you read, the clothes you wear. There's a large chunk of art that no longer holds my interest. It may be done well, but I look at it and think, "Seen it. Next."

Not my breakfast.

 

I begin each morning dealing with a disgusting thing. I have a gash on my residual limb resulting from blood not flowing properly to a part of the twenty-two-inch-long incision made to remove a cancerous part of my pelvis two months ago. I get in my shower stall, sit on my shower chair, and remove the dressing. The gash is bright red, like exposed muscle. This morning was the first that it didn't drip blood on the shower floor when I remove the gauze. After I shower, I half sit, half lie on my bed, apply a prescription goo to the, and tape a new piece of gauze over it. Then I dress and go to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

Every morning I'm surprised I have any appetite after doing what I just did.