Aryn Bramhall

Ezra the Saxophone Player

When I walked out of the hospital that morning I was grateful to see the sun finally peaking through the fog. The weather had been rainy and borderline gloomy for days-- a heavy, thick mist hung in the air, and fog crept up over the hills and trees, daring folks to stay in bed. I’d been working night shift since daylight savings time, and hadn’t seen the sun seemingly in weeks. I took the deepest breath I could, longing to feel the brisk air on my face and in my lungs instead of underneath my 13 hour old surgical mask. As I crossed Erwin Drive I noticed a faint rainbow reaching down to touch ground. I walked up the parking garage stairs and across the deck, soaking in that “I’m not back tonight” feeling of relief. I sighed, tossing my hospital sneakers in the trunk and wiggling my toes in my Adidas slides. I yanked off my mask as I melted into the driver’s seat and doused my hands in coconut hand sanitizer. I pay $8 at the pay station and I’m free, at least physically. I merge right onto the highway, entering my mental decompression zone--a 27 mile stretch of 540 and 40. In a vain attempt to “leave work at work,” I litter this winding route home with tears of all sorts, frustrations, and mental debris. This is where I try to leave the heaviness of work behind before it sets up camp in my heart and mind.