The Mark He Won't Remove

He still wears it. Twenty-four hours past.

The plastic band with his name in capitals,

the barcode underneath. He's holding fast.

Through dinner, through the day's intervals.

Toward the small scissors they provide.

You're supposed to use them.

He didn't. And I recognize the pride

in that refusal—the way some come

back from the hospital wanting to hold on

to the fact that they belonged there,

were documented, tracked. The plastic's on

his wrist like proof. Like something rare.

At home, you're just whoever you were before.

In the hospital, everyone matters equally.

Everyone's important. Everyone's yours

to monitor. He wants that slightly

longer. The way the bracelet means

something. The way it says: I was here,

I was tracked, I was seen,

I was worth keeping alive. And near

enough to matter. The scissors sit

unused. The plastic stays on.

He's not ready yet to permit

himself to be unmarked, to be gone

from that world of attention and care.

So he wears the bracelet to dinner.

Leaves it on. Keeps it there.

Lets the system's mark linger.