How We Seal What's Broken

The nurse explained each step.

Her voice was calm, practiced,

the voice you use when someone

is trying very hard not to look

at what their body is becoming.

The needle went in.

The thread followed.

My friend's hand gripped the metal chair.

Blood welled up, a small dark bead.

The nurse wiped it away with cotton

before the next pass of the needle.

In. Out. In. Out.

The stitches formed a line.

A seam. A closure.

Something sealed that had come open.

I watched the thread pull through skin.

How thin it was. How necessary.

How the wound kept bleeding

even as it was being sealed.

My friend's hand was still shaking

when it was done.

The nurse covered it with gauze.

Said to keep it dry.

Said come back in two weeks.

But I was thinking about the thread

still holding,

about the body's agreement to stay together,

about how we trust these small repairs

and then walk out into a world

that could break us again

just as easily.