Rob S. Friedman
June 2025
Ode to Propofol
Last night I dreamt of my father lying in his hospital bed, a tech separating his wedding ring from his finger as my siblings debate with his doctors and fail to defeat time and truth.
Tomorrow, it’s my turn for the ether, plus a Milk of Amnesia chaser, after following doctor’s orders, including wearing no jewelry. My wedding ring’s in a jewelry box amid some other time-worn totems I’ve gathered.
All the reassurances of tomorrow’s event being low risk, routine, and not a worry, are worn brakes against doom and dread yet still resist any slippage into calm or confidence there’s a blissful common end.
Except when all tenses lose their power and logic-defying metaphors of rings extend far beyond the fog and muck of memory filling any void between love and joy existing as quanta, becoming all there is.
Rob S. Friedman 