Before we ever met, there was something happening in your back situation that was Not Good. Not Good things were done to you, as you slept, to fix the Not Good thing. The room went white with doctors, and you slept through the pain.
Afterwards, for what seemed like forever, you lay on your stomach while your skin things healed; while yourself made itself right again. You refused the pain killers for fear of addiction and made things with your hands, to keep your mind quick. You lived.
Day one of Better, you took a drive to a friend’s house, sat on a couch, and smiled. You lived.
When you tell me this story, you grow in my mind into a large impenetrable tree, invincible. The tree holds seven tree houses for imaginative children and the ocean quietly licks at its feet. I know little of real pain, so I like to look up to you, lying on your stomach as you healed, before we ever met.