A Friday Night Sit

A mental health patient on a floor reserved for the elite’s new hips and knees; well, he wasn’t welcome, to say the least. They build a wall of nurses; wary of aggression, of bother—and put unsettling eyes on him while he wanders the night. He speaks an endless monologue; and engaging is exhausting, talking about scorpions and spiders in Arizona. That was on me, I’d shared and told a story because I liked him.  A piece of Mom’s banana bread and another story about a real WWII Flying Tiger that I’d known had calmed him, and he claimed I’d saved his life, coming on shift that night.


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