Working

When I was a very young child, young enough not to remember but old enough to be relieving myself in porcelain bowls as opposed to my own pants, my parents made a decision. They choose a rather invasive operation meant only for my own good. It really had nothing to do with their future or the quality of the separate nursing homes they will soon find themselves lounging in.

The surgery, as finally explained to me by my father as I entered my thirties, was surprisingly simple. A two inch square section of my back scalp was cut and peeled back, not unlike a misplaced mini facelift. Some human cable contained within, my father lacking the medical training or the stomach to watch all that closely or recount accurate details, was severed only to be reattached with a small shinny piece of metal now connecting the loose ends of the cable. From that day forward, whatever fluids, signals or messages were being transmitted along that cable would pass through that metal connector no larger than those coloured fennel seeds they keep in a bowl at the exit of Indian restaurants.

While everything was returned to it's rightful place I still, to this day, have an unexplainable bump on the back left side of my noggin where this handy work took place. The shinny piece of metal would be difficult to find today as it was quickly engulfed and swallowed up by my own living tissue. That tiny shinny piece of metal had three miniscule words neatly engraved on it. Those three words were:

"just work everyday"

I have to get back to work.