Santa

 I wake up hours early and can't fall back asleep, so I pour a cup of yesterday's coffee and lie on the couch and wait. The cat, who rarely makes any noise, is meowing insistently, and I can't figure out what he wants. My phone informs me that I have five voicemails. They're all from the same prison scam. . At least a dozen times a day a recorded voice tries to convince me to accept collect charges from this prisoner. I blocked the number but apparently that doesn't prevent them from leaving messages.

I have an appointment with my foot doctor in a couple hours. Dread and hope have congealed into a roiling slurry in my chest. I try not to think about wanting to be dead and as a result the only thing I can think about is wanting to be dead.

By the time I roll into the doctor's office I'm on the verge of tears. The assistant unwraps the bandages, which are speckled with blood; a new wound has opened up in the side of the foot. The doctor doesn't seem concerned by it; he says it looks like the boot is just rubbing, despite my not walking on it. When I tell him how worried I am he reassures me, says it's nothing. He re-wraps my foot and gives me a smaller, lighter shoe to wear and tells me I can walk now, that I don't have to use the scooter any longer.

I drop my scooter and old heavy boot back at home and spend the day walking around town. At first I use my cane, but it's more of a hindrance than anything. I go to a few  places I haven't been able to get to; junk shops, record stores. Everyone around me is a faceless blur, their voices jumbling together incoherently. The world outside the bus windows passes in a dull wash of gray.

I decide to head down to the Goose to celebrate. It's a sloppy, chilly night, but I get there just as one of the indoor booths opens up. I order a Reuben and a few drinks and doodle in my sketchbook. I watch the other patrons and listen for some good tidbits of conversation, but they all sound dull. One young woman is wearing a revealing top. I catch myself staring and I blush and focus on my book. 

As I'm leaving, a group of men and women dressed as Santa arrive, laughing and screaming. All of them are wearing beards, even the women. I walk home- and just those three words are kind of a miracle, the fact that I am actually able to put one foot in front of the other; slowly and awkwardly, true, and not without pain, but still... I've waited so long for this moment, for some sign that things are getting better, that this period of hardship is finally coming to a close. It's genuinely good news, and I should be jubilant, but instead I feel nothing. The dread has been drained from my chest but so has the hope, and as a result I'm left feeling completely empty.