Dr. Johnson takes a quick look at a small scab on my forehead and says, “Sunspot, let’s get it off.” While he’s busy putting tools on a tray, I manage to stammer, “Is that another word for skin cancer?”

“No, no,” he says, leaning over so that he can get at it. “Here, just a bit of freezing.”

Time seems frozen as he drops it into a plastic vial, sews me up, and says, “Just a bit of skin, that. We’ll send it to the lab and I’ll want to see you next week to take the stitches out.”

“And what’s your guess?” I manage to say.

“Don’t worry, it’s good that you came right in. My best friend waited six months and it was too late. He died at fifty-two.”

On the drive home, his words flash through my mind: tiny bit of skin, cancer, died at 52, waited too long. How long was it on my forehead before I noticed it?

Back home, I walk into the living room and say “Hi,” to my daughter. She says, “Hi Dad,” without looking up from her reading.

Everything seems just as I left it an hour ago. Yet everything seems different.

stretched out
in a sunspot—
the black and white cat

—First appeared in bottle rockets (No. 19, 2008); republished here by author’s permission from Landmarks: A Haibun Collection (Haibun Bookshelf Publishing, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada; 2015)

Bio: Ray Rasmussen