Carpometacarpal Joint

The surgeon removed the problematic bone.
I considered asking for it. Possibly illegal?
Fun to think of, polished and hanging around my neck.
Oh, that’s my left trapezium, I’d say, lifting it for show.

Winter was everywhere except here,
storms rolling up the coast split north and south.
My body supplied the drama.

Do you remember what I said to you after the surgery?
I marveled at the unwrapping as she cut,
cast rolled like a burrito: cotton cushioning, gauze and plaster,
my swollen hand, bump below the index knuckle
where she’d planted a button
joined to another on the side of the thumb,
thread wired between them.

I remembered before the surgery,
when she stood at the end of the gurney,
I hadn’t recognized her, tumbling hair disguised
beneath the bouffant cap (I wore one too), until I saw the eyes,
impeccably applied mascara, penetrating, not unkind.

The nurse who brought me apple juice,
helped me wiggle into underwear and pants,
said the joint had been a mess: Her problem, not yours.

What did I say to you after the surgery?
So hard to think straight around doctors, the knowingness catches you.
Mascara-framed eyes waiting for my response.
No idea. Trick question?
Miniature me walking the tightrope in my hand.

After years of drought, snowpack in the Rockies rebounded.
It snowed big time in southern California.