Having risen from the bed, after the ability to stand had been re-established, the gait still adjusting to the shifts of the body’s weight, I found myself in front of the streaked mirror in the hospital room. The halo was dull    in that light, almost brushed in appearance. How saintly of me to wear a halo? I wanted a narrator to say: Here, he models the latest headwear, the finest in German engineering. But James Earl Jones was apparently unavailable.   The pins buried in my skull looked like a nautical device of some kind. But there were no journeys for me to take, just a bed and a room. My nurse’s name was Zar, short for Lazarus. Of course his name was Lazarus. It fits with the   theme of this whole thing. Zar said take it easy, said move slowly and think about each step as if you are learning to walk. But one doesn’t think about each step when learning to walk. We rise, we fumble, we shuffle, we fall.    The wings, buried (thankfully) were just an itch between my shoulder blades, a slight tug on the muscles depending on the way I moved. Each night I prayed to make it out of the hospital before the wings made themselves known again.