Dear Patient,

We are sorry for disappointing you. You who arrived in the predawn black, dressed in your father’s rugby polo, we are sorry for chilling your being. We are sorry for arranging your body with warmed blankets like a Viking in his grave. We are sorry the tall doctor came and bent over you like a frond to inspect the glass filling your body. We know the disappointment made capillaries burst even harder in your eyes. You see, we couldn’t have known what waited for you on the other side of the sea. We only meant to send you there for sleep. When we opened you up, we found a syrinx in your throat like a bird. You expelled song at us and resisted penetration, none of us knew what to do. Around one finger, you trilled rather pinkly. Around two, you might’ve died. Never mind that your tonsils winked at us like pearls from the red wet. It was hard enough to coax air down your throat, we had to stroke it like a cat with a pill. The supine position wasn’t enough. Neither was the rose. In the end, we had to leave you draped in the theater, bells still on, pockets of grief starting to form under the skin.

Wishing you a speedy recovery,

Your Surgical Team