The consummation of independence
In a bare, frozen room.
The worn green chair
Set before a picture window,
drapes thrown
for a field of stark white,
waiting . . .
A blanket and a stack of books -
company until the sun fell,
when his own words came
at an old card table,
stained from years of fellowship,
where he would arrange
and rearrange til dawn.
Clouds shredding,
giving themselves up to the breeze,
She cheered on the waves:
"There should be more dancing."
He took her hand,
barefoot in the sand,
sang her The Boat Song,
and meant all the words.
She swayed and spun,
cotton dress
catching at his legs,
pressed in close
for the chorus,
for the way his lips tickled
the crown of her right ear
and felt herself falling
towards the horizon,
giving herself up to joy.
Shapes in the cat-footed fog:
apocalypse and epiphany,
looming, quiet.
Misty intentions
of external forces
harnessed by imagination
to daylight and dissipation,
carried off during a slow commute
replaced with truths
more manageable.
Our office itself is an independent, single practitioner, out-patient Internal Medicine/Family Practice clinic, but to be able to provide the best service to her patients, my wife finds it valuable to maintain privileges at the local hospital.
Fairly recently said hospital was acquired by a larger hospital system , which has required my wife to go through a whole new process of credentialing in order to continue those privileges. Late last week we were informed the process includes a site inspection of our office by a team from the new hospital system.
We’ve had inspections before by the local fire department as well as several of the insurance providers we’re contracted with, but the list of items the hospital wanted to check on was significantly more extensive than those previous inspections, and we were given less than a week's notice to prepare. Equipment had to be checked, documentation written and updated, ducks had to be herded into rows, and in some cases glued down to keep them from subsequently wandering off.
I say all this chiefly to express my gratitude to my Office Manager for all her hard work, which garnered us an easily passing rate of 96%, only getting dinged for not having specialized equipment an office our size would never have, and because the handicap sigil in the designated parking space out front had faded to the point of non-existence (an issue which will be pointed out to our landlord whose responsibility it is to maintain).
The other reason I'm writing this is to bookmark for myself how satisfying it was at the end of the inspection to realize how far the office has come from the chaos which had characterized most of our history. The inspectors fairly breezed through the office, able to find and identify all the many things on their list quickly and easily, whether it related to emergency or safety equipment, policies or documentation, or the general operation of our facility and staff.
There were so many years where it felt like everything was just hanging by a thread, despite exhausting amounts of physical and mental effort. The toll the business has taken has been much more than we expected or planned for. Now, though, we stand poised to reap the rewards of all the hard work, even if it’s coming later than we wanted, and to move into a new stage of our lives with actual hope and joy.
Next up, identifying and incorporating all the incentivized bits of tracked data required by Medicare Advantage plans into our in-house programs. At least that'll have me writing code rather than policies and procedures.
I clung to the world as long as I could, but the forces arrayed against me were greater than all my plans and strength, and eventually there was nothing holding me but the gravity of fate.
Wisteria shouldn't just be a flowering vine or a street name, it should at least be a micro-season and at best declared an international holiday.
Two to four weeks (if February can be fickle about its length, so can Wisteria) where work is set aside and the faithful leisurely pilgrimage from arbor to arbor, resting in fragrant, lilac shade.
Not a holiday of gifts given or food eaten, but one for reflecting on the mystery of beauty. Its surprising advent, its profound, mysterious effect, its brevity, its persistent recurrence.
Regardless of recognition, Wisteria is by far my favorite holiday.
Wearwolves in lamb skin suits travel the city in fashion packs, sizing up each passerby, searching for wardrobe upgrades.
Spot will often go hunting on her own just after twilight. Slouching off into the woods once her shadow's been put to bed.
Spriggans are a favorite target of her solo adventures, and she'll leave twisted, wizened fingers for me to find next to her food bowl some mornings, letting me know she has new treasure to which I am not a party.
Arms like thunder
And eyes full of storm,
When she kissed him
She could taste lightning.
At the maddest point of her desperation she tried to go back in time and kill me as a child, hoping to wipe me utterly from her existence.
But I had already hardened my timeline against paradox incursions, taking the little bastard out myself afterwards.
Neither of us deserved an easy way out of the disaster we'd created, and if she wanted some measure of ineffective comfort she could seek it from her own past self.