Thursday, April 19, 2012
You might not get this, unless you do
This morning, I pulled the strap of my sandal through the buckle, tight, and felt the muscle memory of a day spent walking in D.C., a blister forming on the bottom of my heel, the endless mall and museums, looking up and around and nodding, the rubbing a nagging, forgotten when I pulled it off that night and remembered a week later when I pushed the white bubble, the wrinkled skin a fingerprint over contained water. This morning, I pulled the strap of my sandal through the buckle, tight, and felt the muscle memory of a day spent walking, out of a hospital on York Avenue in September, the air cold, the scarves wrapped tight around necks and heads, eyes squinting with wind tears and the gray sky, the brisk life around me oblivious to what lay in the hospital behind me, my baby, my baby, pseudo-tumor cerebri they said, shaking their heads at the rarity. A complication from weaning steroids. It will resolve, they said, as they stuck their needles into her bowed spine, screaming, pulling the fluid out, relieving the pressure that I'd found, myself, a fingerprint over contained water on the top of her head, the fontanel bulge.
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O god.
ReplyDeletetotally get it. In fact I've done it several times. Though there was no wind chill, there was always ice water suddenly running into my heart.
ReplyDeleteoh dearie. yes. we are your witnesses.
ReplyDeleteso very evocative, beautiful.
ReplyDeleteFirst.
ReplyDeletestunned. stunning. love to you.
and then,
this association mindful sensitive always layers and layers to our every second? it's a gift and a curse isn't it?
Oh, Elizabeth, you break my heart.
ReplyDeleteAs an aside (and I hope not a tacky aside), I do so hope you'll include this passage in a longer work about your family's journey. It is beautifully written and powerful.
Love to you. xo
Oh dear god Elizabeth. The mother you are and the writer you are make a powerful combination. Heartbroken.
ReplyDeletelove,
Rebecca
You are a great poet. The depth of the riverbeds in your heart combine with this talent you have, and share, and we are better for it. Love to you all.
ReplyDeleteYes, I get it. Those memory triggers, when we least expect them. God bless your heart and mind, Elizabeth. Hugs to you.
ReplyDeleteyes, i do. i like what susan said. "we are your witnesses."
ReplyDeletethis is astonishing. the moments looping on themselves, as deb says. the heartbreak, as rebecca says. you. you.
ReplyDeletewhat i feel, oddly, is overwhelming gratitude that you are willing to share this. thank you.
The utter depth of your heart, your talent, your soul amaze me, Elizabeth.
ReplyDeleteyou are so amazing...
ReplyDeleteThe way you create something beautiful out of pain is so inspiring. My heart goes out to that mama in NY that day.
ReplyDeleteI don't know how you do it, Elizabeth. I really don't. If I was to open you up I would expect to see a beautiful heart broken, like a glass Christmas ornament that just shattered one day because the air touched it the wrong way.
ReplyDeleteyou're an amazing writer. there is a way to put those feelings in words, there are words to express them, but not everyone has them. you do.
ReplyDeleteI love, love, love the echoes/layers in this. Wonderful writing. Hugs and kisses. N2
ReplyDeleteIf I was at all insecure I wold read a brilliant post like this and wallow in misery at how goofy and shallow I am compared to you and your literary brilliance. I'm glad I'm not insecure because I'm ok with my goofiness. i enjoy you while I wipe snot rockets from The Baby's nose...some hanging down to her jeans...and I wonder....what beautiful prose could Elizabeth spin from snot rockets? If anyone could it would be you. You have such a gift I adore it and you.
ReplyDelete