The patient who taught me how to leave a room

Last night I dreamed I was back in the oncology wing, but everyone was okay — the chipped mug was in my hand again, and instead of a diagnosis I was just pouring coffee. The patient who taught me how to leave a room was there, waving from the doorway like he'd only stepped out for a smoke. 1987 keeps softening its edges; the cracks aren't loss anymore, just the pattern I was too scared to look at directly.