Habit

by Season Kam

When you were six weeks old, you needed an emergency surgery.

Something about an infected node in your neck. 

You weighed barely as much as a gallon of milk

and already something was wrong.

On the fifth floor of the children’s hospital, I waited to see

if what they predicted would happen. Waited for the clues

that your body was correcting itself, the signs

that it had all been a minor misunderstanding.

At night, if I closed my eyes, the glow from the emergency exit

flickered like light from a bonfire. The rhythmic hum

of the pump pushing saline through your body, a tiny tide.

The crescent moon negotiated a nighttime swim.

Certain things are hard to abandon after a lifetime of belief. 

An over-zealousness for rules; the words said in unison

before the family meal. Leaving the door a crack open

for the apology that might just come in the night. 

Knowing that so much of life is imaginary, still, 

the day of the surgery, I handed you to a stranger

and whispered, I love you—

out of habit. 

Author’s note: The line “knowing that so much of life is imaginary,” is adapted from a line from Tony Hoagland’s poem, “Mistaken Identity Librarian Syndrome.”