“How are you?” the nurse asked.
“Can I drink coffee?” I asked.
“Nothing before your brain surgery,” she whispered.

​

I looked out of the window.
The street lay empty,
gray light spilling over cracked pavement.
A sparrow flitted past,
its wings soundless
against the waiting world.

​

I turned inward,
felt my heart thrum
in its cage of ribs,
and examined my consciousness.

​

Did I ever pause
to do something for someone else?
Did I ever give
a fragment of myself
to humanity?
I didn’t know.

​

The question hovered—
sharp, fragile, luminous.

​

Life, here,
suspended between breaths,
between this cabin and the empty street,
between what is
and what might end.

​

I remembered once,
holding a door
a second longer than needed,
as if kindness
could be measured in pauses.

​

I wondered if, when measured,
my existence
would leave a trace,
a ripple
in the quiet waters
of the world.