Soapbox

Traumatic Injury

He didn't recognize me.

When I touched his shoulder and said "Do you know who I am?"
he turned his head, smiled at me and said "Hi"
with no recognition in his eyes.
I am no stranger to concussion,
have seen short term memory loss before,
but there is nothing short-term about me and him.
For 35 years he has known my name
known my body, my joys and fears, my heart
but he just licked his bloody lips and said "Hi"
with the same odd cheerfulness he displays
when the doctor introduces himself
and  fear probed into my heart
sharper and colder than the phlebotomist's needle
penetrated his scraped and bruised right arm.

Outwardly he is a patchwork of shallow scrapes and torn skin
but occult and sinister damage lurks inside:
a spider-web of cracked bones around the eyes
and underneath, swollen folds of grey tissue
surrounding misfiring neurons.
They tell me they're going to do a scan to see
how much is lost, what to expect to come back.
If the scan is good, they'll  keep him 'for observation'
but what I observe now makes my fingers grow cold.
His hands, so nimble andd expressive,
flutter and wave above him in constant, restless motion,
like small birds seeking to escape from this unhappy trauma bay.
I reach for them, need to hold them and him here.
He takes my hand when I catch his- I wonder if it is simple reflex-
and I want to  cling to it, but his hands are bleeding from a dozen places
so I gingerly slip my fingers between his
lean forward and brush them with trembling lips.

"What happened?" he wonders again, apparently in no pain.
"What's going on here?"
I've lost you, and you've  lost me I want to wail.
"You crashed your bike" I offer instead.
"Well, that sucks" he replies cheerfully.
I dab a drop of blood away from his cheek
and whisper "Yes, it does…"