The Signal

The angle of the sun does not confuse them—

once the bees find the rosemary, they cannot

forget it is there. They return to it out of instinct.

So, too, the animal inside each of us returns to things.

I knew it was there, the fuzzy-edged spot in

my brain and, no matter how I tried, I

understood too much about these tumors.

Every headache, every watery shimmer in

my vision, every misplaced word, alarmed me.

I was awaiting my sentinel event, the signal

that the end was imminent. I could not sleep.

Like the hand that returns to touch the wound,

I returned to the image on the MRI scan.

I did not need to close my eyes to envision it.

Sprinkling rosemary into a sauce, I imagined

how the bees frantic and feverish return to the bush,

return to the flowers giving up their nectar.

I knew not what I was offered as my mind

buzzed around the image I had seen

from inside my own head. My mind hovered.

It darted among the branches of my own brain.

Look ahead at that spot on the wall. Stay focused

on it. The swelling seen at the back of my eyes

was mild but definitely present. Was this it?

Sentinel, from the late 16th-century French word

sentinelle, to stand guard, to watch over.

Who on earth was watching over me besides me?

I watched and watched until the worry became

a long-standing friend, the kind you have known

for many years but still do not completely trust.