An inability to comprehend what it means exactly to be told that a part of you must be detached from the whole. That this single appendage, used for nearly fifty-five years to carry you through mazes of life, will kill you.
(And how will this affect me? The selfish question, despite my swallowing, breaks free to travel through my body.)
Reminding myself that I'm an adult--a quarter of a century old next month--my voice travels unwavering through the air, cell phone to cell phone, with practical advice. But in my mind, a tiny, tiny girl is trying to see past a severed foot to look at her father's face.