{"id":1947,"date":"2026-05-07T09:07:20","date_gmt":"2026-05-07T14:07:20","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/?p=1947"},"modified":"2026-05-07T09:43:38","modified_gmt":"2026-05-07T14:43:38","slug":"clean-with-bright-lights","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/2026\/05\/clean-with-bright-lights\/","title":{"rendered":"Clean, with Bright Lights"},"content":{"rendered":"

It was by the afternoon when I knew what this all meant. It meant another half-summer of tubes into my nose and wires set on my hands, with the next half talking through a half-broken jaw and not being able to run around much. Or get my hands dirty at all. Or being able to climb something higher off the ground than the downstairs couch. But that was how it was, no use in complaining about it.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Besides, who listens to you anyways when you\u2019re twelve, even the kind of twelve that would described as \u201cbright\u201d or \u201cexceptionally precocious\u201d by sympathetic adults? Or \u201cweird\u201d and \u201closer\u201d by less sympathetic peers? Not that all of my peers are unsympathetic of course, it\u2019s not like I have no friends. Having no friends, at least ones that exist in a physical space close to me, might actually be easier in a way. Nothing to get taken out of so consistently, not so many in-jokes you need to be caught up on after lying in a hospital bed for three weeks. Even if my friends are the fellow bright, exceptionally weird precocious losers, at least we are each other\u2019s. Taking that patina of protection away for months at a time was the worst thing about having so much wrong with you. So many decisions made before you even could have decided, or have decided for you, that you were the kind of kid who would be in need of the company of weird friends to feel safe.<\/span><\/p>\n

Dr. Clark was sympathetic to my silently felt plight, as he always was in that way that someone can be sympathetic when they know they don\u2019t <\/span>actually<\/span><\/i> have to modify their plans to accommodate you in any way. The smooth crop of his blonde hair cut a sharp contrast against the bland light blue of his hospital-issued smock, the chain which held his slightly worn, outdated ID carp rubbing up against his neck. He\u2019d described what was going to happen, the total remaking of some essential parts of my face to allow for\u00a0 better breathing and lessen the risks of catastrophic underbite later on, and I looked past him to the public health notice he\u2019d posted behind him. It was some standard agency thing about taking a cautious attitude towards drugs, alcohol, smoking, random teenage sex. I couldn\u2019t decide if he\u2019d been ordered to post that up as he was the designated doctor for troubled youth (not that I was particularly troubled, or even quite yet to the point where I could be described that way), or he just liked the message. He did have a certain clean-living WASP vibe to him. The type of guy you could have imagined endorsing filtered cigarettes with a stethoscope wrapped over his shoulders if this were 1957. But of course, it wasn\u2019t, so, he\u2019d have to tell you that smoking kills and you should take a run every day and drink lots of water. But not in a judgy way, which was helpful considering the way parts of me were starting to slouch and droop inside my clothes in ways that couldn\u2019t be attributed to baby fat or considered in any way cute.<\/span><\/p>\n

My mother wrestled out the green notepad she kept in her purse and jotted down a few of the things Dr. Clark was saying. Much of it was technical, big medical words for different types of small bones, so I wasn\u2019t sure what she got out of writing them down. Maybe it helped her to feel that she had control of the situation by writing it down, making it concrete in that way. Sort of like how people driving in cars feel they are masters of the situation and never going to get into an accident, even though really whether they make it home or not is up to hundreds of thousands of factors that they have absolutely no control over. Mom didn\u2019t like it when I said things like that, thought it was too grim for a child. She was probably right, but it was still undeniably true.<\/span><\/p>\n

Personally, even though I thought maybe I could be like Dr. Clark one day after a lot more starring into schoolbooks, I was inclined to take it all on faith. Putting yourself under a knife like that was one big gamble. You just lie down and trust that the degree hanging on the wall behind the person in the lab coat isn\u2019t from a degree mill. Or that if it is, they at least picked up a couple of things by looking over a colleague\u2019s shoulder while playing doctor. Whenever he wasn\u2019t talking about how long I would need to recover for, or how I\u2019d have to restrict what I could eat after it was all done, I just sort of spaced out. Not entirely, I was still in the room, hadn\u2019t decided to float out the window and down to visit the sausage guy out front, but just sort of floating in that in between.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat make sense to both of you?\u201d, Dr. Clark cut through the haze I was creating for myself. He flashed that slightly nervous, very beaming white smile of his. \u201cIt\u2019s a fairly standard procedure. Not cosmetic, so, no cost, government covers it. But you\u2019ll probably have to get a hotel for the night before, so, you know, just budget for that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I did like a stay at the Delta, made me feel a bit like someone more important. Though I fully realized that the <\/span>really<\/span><\/i> important families could actually afford to live in Toronto so that they didn\u2019t have to book an overnight hotel room if their son\u2019s surgery was booked at an early enough time. Mom winced a little at the price involved but let that out in a sigh quickly after. She asked another couple of questions about timing, what she could do while I was under the drugs and bright lights.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, it\u2019s hard to say but a little while, so, you\u2019d have time for lunch, maybe some walking around. We would want you to stay close, though. Don\u2019t, you know, go galvanting around the city, looking up at the tall buildings.\u201d Dr. Clark chuckled, like it was a joke more shared between the three of us than it actually was. He then swiveled his head slightly to face me directly, \u201cWhat about you? Guess I shouldn\u2019t call you little man anymore, huh, you\u2019d probably find that annoying?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I took a theatrically large breath in and puffed out my cheeks, feeling the dusty office air fill my mouth. I\u00a0 couldn\u2019t actually think of very much I wanted to know that I didn\u2019t already. This <\/span>was<\/span><\/i> going to happen, and I wouldn\u2019t have much of a summer, <\/span>again<\/span><\/i>, and I\u2019d have to catch up on everything was school was back open, <\/span>again<\/span><\/i>. Those \u201cagain\u201ds started to dig at the corner of my thoughts, though, like an unpleasant shard of metal plunging through a soft-soled shoe. I decided I would just ask and see if I would get a straight answer this time. Maybe I was old enough for straight answers now.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWill this be the last one? Like, when am I gonna be normal enough already?\u201d, I said, adding a flippant edge to the second question like I wasn\u2019t actually interested in the answer. \u201cNot that I don\u2019t like the tall buildings and all, just was wondering when we\u2019re not gonna have to see each other again.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Dr. Clark gave a little smile, the kind meant to convey an experience dealing well with teenage sarcasm. \u201cWell, it depends on how fast you grow. Hopefully, this is the last major thing for your mouth issues. Other things, well . . . I can\u2019t really say, it\u2019s not my area. But you\u2019re a good trooper to take all this, and I know it\u2019s not fun to not see your friends for a summer.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

It was a bit selfish to even think like that, I knew. After all, as my mother never tired of reminding me, these surgeries would have cost us a fortune if we lived across Lake Ontario in that land of George Bush and medical bankruptcies. Let alone if I\u2019d been born in one of those places that my grandparents had sponsored a family\u2019s small-scale chicken farm in. Who knows just what would have become of me then? Be grateful, something deeper down was saying.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It was quickly overtaken, as Mom and I stood up and walked out, past the bored admin assistant at the half-round desk, by the sort of rural-exurb resentment of having to come into these big places so often and yet never really see them bred. I hit the elevator call button harder than I should have, with a half-closed fist.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re getting sulky for no reason again. You do know, that, right?\u201d, Mom said, playing with the loop on her car keys. \u201cJust be lucky you get to have this done. Can\u2019t imagine the actual costs . . .\u201d. Her voice trailed off as the metal doors opened. \u201cBesides, it\u2019s a fast one, just two weeks from now. Can\u2019t believe how quick they were able to get you in.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She said it liked I had won some kind of prize, like they fished one lucky kid\u2019s name out of a hat and made their surgery happen faster. She was right, in a sense, at least I wouldn\u2019t have long to dwell on this pre-made, mandated decision. I looked across to her like I could have said something mean about how maybe she wishes her kid didn\u2019t come out so wrong and she wouldn\u2019t have to burn money she didn\u2019t have on Toronto hotel rooms. But I thought better of it: a ninety-minute car ride after that would have made having your jaw broken and reset in several places pleasant by comparison.<\/span><\/p>\n

******<\/span><\/p>\n

The scuffing sound of my running shoes filled the front hall of Adam\u2019s house with a grinding echo that made his older sister visibly wince in the living room.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTell your friends not to ruin the floor! Christ, Adam!\u201d, she shouted, attempting to project the adult authority she had been briefly entrusted with.<\/span><\/p>\n

I walked a bit sheepishly to the basement door, avoiding what I imagined was a silent judgement she was making of me. It turned out she was well-enraptured in something on the upstairs TV with a MuchMusic watermark in the corner. I didn\u2019t have much to worry about on that front.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cStop ruining stuff with your being a weird snitch!\u201d, Adam yelled up the stairs as I opened the doors. I could tell he was struggling to hear himself over the sound of digital gunfire. \u201cWho\u2019s there? Alyssa, that you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I walked slowly down the newly carpeted stairs to what adults would call a rec room. It was really a mostly unfinished basement with a couple of throw carpets, a couch, some slightly bent folding chairs and, the most important thing, a rear-screen projection TV with various consoles hooked in. Some home gym equipment which must have been newly purchased caught my eye as my feet landed on the concrete floor after the last step . Maybe Adam\u2019s dad was finally going ahead with his plan to actually do something with the space. A thought shot briefly through me that maybe this was the end of the basement as fundamentally <\/span>ours<\/span><\/i>, Adam and the crew of misfits. But Adam didn\u2019t seem worried enough to have even clean up the sprawl of DVD cases and soda cans from taking up their usual space. I figured I wouldn\u2019t get too ahead of myself.<\/span><\/p>\n

Adam craned his head back at the sound of my sock feet sliding towards him. \u201cOh, hey, man, sorry\u201d, he paused the game and made his whole body do the same half-turn as his neck. \u201cJust was finishing. What\u2019s up? You know anything more about this hospital thing? That must suck, having to be cut open so much.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Adam had a certain lack of tact that he fully embraced as a form of mild suburban rebellion. He was the sort of kid who would ask a teacher about their divorce proceedings in the middle of class if he had learned about it through the grapevine of town gossip. If he hadn\u2019t been so smart, he\u2019d probably have gotten in trouble more, but most adults who were the direct target of it tended to write it off as a quirk of genius. I wondered a lot what the flaws of mine that would have earned me more trips to the principal\u2019s office if I didn\u2019t consistently rank in the top five percent of test takers. Probably the same sort of smart mouth, or maybe my heavy breathing on account of my weight. Certain things can\u2019t help but come off as a bit better when you believe the person doing them is actually very intelligent underneath the annoyance they make.<\/span><\/p>\n

I came around the edge of the couch, noticing that one arm of the imitation-leather coating had been scratched at quite severely. The jury was out on weather that has first-person shooter induced rage on Adam\u2019s part or the family cat, Ernest, clinging for life as Adam tried to move him. I spun one of the folding chairs around to face Adam on the couch, his face taking on a pallid glow in the reflected light of the projector beam. He rubbed his right leg nervously, looking across to the stairs again, betraying that I wasn\u2019t the person he exactly wanted to see right now. The chair creaked slightly as I sat down, reminding that I probably spent too much time sitting.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou waiting for someone else here? You\u2019re looking over at the stairs like you are\u201d, I said shifting to find a better position on the cold metal of the chair. Adam shrugged and I decided not to go further with it. \u201cBut, yeah, man, it fucking sucks. At least a week in the hospital, same fucking thing as last time. I mean, I get it, you have to do this stuff, but, like, I could do my schoolwork and shit from the hospital. That idea that they don\u2019t want to take you out of school is for, like, the dumb kids if you ask me. Like, we know half the time we\u2019re just bored there anyways.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Adam nodded along, following me while listening to the pause screen guitar chugs from the speaker stacks to the left and right of the screen. \u201cYeah, I dunno, man. Guess they always have to assume all kids are the same like that. Which, you know, isn\u2019t true.\u201d He paused and took a sip of soda out of a plastic glass with a pale flower pattern. \u201cWe\u2019ll miss you down at the hall, that\u2019s for sure. Always need more hands there. Goes faster.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I wouldn\u2019t necessarily miss the sweaty, quasi-legal work of setting up chairs and particle wood stages for the town concert hall. But I would miss the $50 of pocket money it made for us. Enough for four movies if you stretched it right. Maybe I would work once or twice late summer. If they didn\u2019t mind working with a guy who didn\u2019t talk right and drooled out of the side of his mouth a bit.<\/span><\/p>\n

I heard a rumbling of running shoes coming across the upstairs hallway and towards the open mouth of the basement door. The steps, fast and sure-footed, could only have come from one set of legs striking against the ground. Adam and I both glanced, eager but trying to be nonchalant, and saw a flash of blue jeans and a sharp swing of newly dyed, newly trimmed hair. We each swallowed deep enough that the other could see it.<\/span><\/p>\n

Alyssa bounded into the room with an energy I could never grasp and Adam consistently denied himself. She flopped down on the couch beside Adam loud enough that it startled him upright and sent the controller he\u2019d left precariously on the scratched-up couch arm falling to the floor with a clatter. He dove down to inspect the precious object, pressing buttons to make sure they still functioned.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHey, watch it!\u201d, Adam said, dusting the controller off and placing it delicately on the table in front of him. \u201cI just bought that thing, you\u2019re making me break it now.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Alyssa rolled her eyes, \u201cI don\u2019t think I <\/span>made<\/span><\/i> you do anything, you\u2019re just a klutz. How are you two, though, enjoying living like sewer people on a nice day like this?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Alyssa was paradoxically pale for someone who tried to drag us, our whole little crew, outside as much as she did. I studied the face I\u2019d known since before I could remember faces or work out the male from the female ones. It looked roughly the same as it always had, give or take a more prominent cheekbone. The hair which framed it, though, was always changing, almost with the seasons, and was today close-cut into coquettish punk style, with dancing strands of red and pink. Alyssa smoothed it with her hand blithely, waiting for a reply from either of us.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Adam responded with only a mocking shrug, so, I decided to take on the responsibility. \u201cI mean, we\u2019ll do something else later. I just got here, ya know?\u201d I studied her more as she shifted around, my eyes squinting slightly in mock judgement. \u201cWhat\u2019s with the new hair?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Alyssa stretched her arms across the top of the couch, slapping Adam\u2019s shoulder as he continued fiddling with the controller. She ran her other hand through her hair, studying it in front of her before she spoke. Lately the feeling between the three of us, the closest-knitted of the weird little too-smart crew, had taken on a hesitant quality. Comments about appearances, clothing seemed to be increasingly vetted for any hint of hormonal feeling, which would of course have to be batted away as a matter of course. Still, I could admit to myself a bit of twisting in the stomach when it came to imagining doing . . . I wasn\u2019t sure what, but something more than sitting on the couch playing video games with her. Mostly, it played out in a faux-macho competition between Adam and myself, like we were knights competing for favors. Who could run farther without stopping for breath, who could get a longer <\/span>Halo<\/span><\/i> kill streak, who could finish their test faster. Of course, I was considerably floppier than he was, made chairs creek considerably more when I sat in them, and had considerably more scars running in criss-cross patterns across my legs. Alyssa could see that as well as anyone else. Perhaps more than anyone else, I worried.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI dunno, just wanted to change\u201d, she said, sounding vaguely offended at having to justify herself. \u201cYou\u2019re like my mom, sometimes, ya know? Like, why this, why that? I dunno, because I want to.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I wanted to say something about how it must be nice to have everything that can change about you be chosen by you, and impermanent to boot. I knew that wasn\u2019t true, though, at least not for her, but it might have felt good to say in that moment as I tried to picture what I would look like with my lower jaw pushed back several centimeters. I didn\u2019t come up with much besides I wouldn\u2019t be able to do that stupid scary monster face that made people laugh as easily anymore. That would be a loss.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI mean, it looks cool, sorry, jeez\u201d, I apologized without knowing exactly for what. \u201cIt\u2019s like, Green Day concert hair or something. Like a girl who would go to that. It\u2019s pretty cool.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Adam shot me a glance and then cut the tense seconds. \u201cYeah, yeah, it\u2019s cool. Come on, here, we\u2019re wasting valuable summer talking about this,\u201d he threw a controller to each of us. \u201cYou\u2019re luckily all of these things still work. Deathmatch. You know the rules. I want to try a new thing here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Alyssa bit her lip quizzically and scrolled through the options on the screen. \u201cAdam, you know, you could be nicer sometimes. Especially since, you know?\u201d, she said, like I had a terminal diagnosis and could keel over at curt words.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat? Oh, like, I know, it sucks, man, this is the last time you can come over for, what, a month?\u201d. Adam wasn\u2019t particularly paying attention to me but did at least feel obligated to face my gaze a bit. \u201cJust hope they don\u2019t fuck you up too bad. Don\u2019t, like, die or anything.\u201d He turned back to Alyssa. \u201cThere, that good enough?<\/span><\/p>\n

I shifted uncomfortably, half because of the cold metal of the chair digging into me and half because I felt I had been made the object of charity. Perhaps I was acutely sensitive to this because I had been the sort of young child whose presence at play dates and birthdays was made obligatory by parents out of a sense of broader social propriety. Being tolerated, rather than wanted, was in a certain way worse than being rejected outright. At least with the latter you didn\u2019t have to see the look on the person\u2019s face which told you everything about how they thought about you. I knew Alyssa didn\u2019t mean it all like that, and I flashed a quick smile across Adam\u2019s shoulder to let her known. She moved closer to Adam on the couch, each inch of fabric space seeming to take an eternity of heartbeats to managed. I peeled my smile away and focused my eyes back on the screen, scrolling through laser gun options.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, <\/span>I\u2019ll<\/span><\/i> miss you for sure. It won\u2019t be nearly as fun without you\u201d, she said, crossing her right leg with Adam\u2019s left in a mocking gesture of distraction. \u201cLet\u2019s play this thing, I\u2019m gonna beat you losers, and then go outside.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Adam smirked and hit the start button on the controller, tightening the intertwine between his leg and Alyssa\u2019s. I felt something slipping down inside of me. Sliding all the way from the top of my stomach and out my feet onto the unfished concrete. The kind of thing that might have stained the old throw carpet even more than it already was had it been visible to the naked eye. It felt like having to miss out on a lot of moments like this one, for no decisions that you had actually made. But it felt more like by missing out on those moments you would be missing out on the moments that built on top of those, in an intricately linked pile of missing.<\/span><\/p>\n

I tried to stop that feeling of spinning by focusing deeper on the hyperactive battle we were waging against each other on the projection screen.<\/span><\/p>\n

*****<\/span><\/p>\n

They\u2019d botched it, hadn\u2019t they? Dr. Clark and that whole team of people with the degrees under glass we\u2019d all just assumed, just taken on faith were legitimate. That\u2019s what I thought as I laid in the bed in the back corner of the shared room, seeing the pale light from the overhead lamps illuminate the dust particles in the air. Too many for what was supposed to be a sterile space, at least to my mind.<\/span><\/p>\n

The distinct iron tang of blood in the back of my throat upon waking up was the first sign that something was amiss. If that was making itself known through the sweaty, anesthetic haze that always followed going under the knife, then it had to have been more serious than usual. A first sign that whatever fleeting chance I had at concert hall odd jobs and running around in the moonlight this year was going to be put on hold. I felt the usual drooping weight of the finger pulse monitor on my right hand and let it drop to the small space between my side and the hospital bed railing.<\/span><\/p>\n

I saw some flashes of movement in the small space I had to see the world between the tips of my feet at the ceiling lights. There were pale blue shapes fast walking in crisscross patterns. Whatever conscious thought I was capable of mustering could identify them as nurses, or something close to that in the elaborate hospital pecking order, but something stopped on the processing chain and they were just movements for then. I had a tiredness too heavy for even the sense-making effort required of watching the shapes move and drifted back to the comfort of dreamless sleep.<\/span><\/p>\n

The next awakening was somehow ruder, though it came with Mom in the corner of my eye and a greater degree of privacy. I could see actual walls, not curtain rods, separately our space from the rest of the ward, and a cheery mural of cartoon animals decorated the one wall I see by turning my head slightly. There was even a window, which some light was getting through even though it seemed to be facing into an alleyway.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mom looked up from her magazine at the sound of my stirring back to life, breathing out a combination of relief and exhaustion. She offered some words of comfort that I couldn\u2019t make out above the foggy din of my spinning thoughts and squeezed tight on the hand without a pulse monitor. I made out something about \u201cgoing to get the doctor\u201d, but mainly just watched her dart hesitantly, looking left and right, out into the hallway. I groaned, my throat still slick with the blood taste, and shut eyes to a light that seemed too bright, too artificial.<\/span><\/p>\n

Dr. Clark must have bounded in silently, either not reading my mood or trying to improve it. He shook hands with Mom and leaned down a bit to get closer to me. I obliged the gesture by propping up on my shoulder to whatever degree I could. I felt the tubes and wires stuck into me rustle about against the hospital sheets.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, this is going to be more complicated than we thought, little man\u201d, Dr. Clark, not catching himself this time. \u201cYou\u2019ve been in and out for a couple of days, so, we\u2019ve got you stable now, that\u2019s good. The problem is, well, this is gonna take a bit to explain.\u201d He turned back to Mom, still occasionally glancing my way with one eye\u2019s corner.<\/span><\/p>\n

I saw the scales of time falling out of his mouth as he spoke. There was a jumble of technical terms and hand motions to represent them, something about unexpected tissue damage and all that. What I got of it was \u201cmore weeks\u201d and \u201cif that\u2019s the case, then . . .\u201d. I had been prepared for a lot of waiting, this time as the others, but if there was one wish I had in that moment it would have been to run down the hallway, past the beeping machines and fragile parents, past the trapeze pig sculpture in the main entrance and out onto the busy city traffic. There I\u2019d hail any taxi, red-and-yellow, orange-and-green, that would pass and not ask too many questions about picking up a pre-teen in a hospital gown. Then I\u2019d ask to go . . . somewhere, my mind stopped at that point. It was all too much. I fell back to the bed.<\/span><\/p>\n

I went back to counting the specks of dust I could see in the window light and settled my head on the pillow. I heard the whine of trolly cart wheels in the hallway, the kind that hadn\u2019t been greased properly. My thoughts gradually drifted to how legs aligned and intertwined with each other, and how pale and numb mine would seem when school started again.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It was by the afternoon when I knew what this all meant. It meant another half-summer of tubes into my nose and wires set on<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[30],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1947"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1947"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1947\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1949,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1947\/revisions\/1949"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1947"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1947"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1947"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}