If I think carefully, I remember the directions. Turn left. Turn left. At the sign.
Through the door. Turn left. I walk and turn left through the door, double
doors, to which I open.
My finger reaches my elbow. I gently step back from the
desk and thank her for the directions. I gently step back, and I feel my spine
crack as I breathe in. Gentle fingers running along my skin. Skin along the
fingers.
One and the same.
I go down the hall and to the left.
The front of my
shoulder.
I no longer feel my bone. I cannot help but mull. It never is quite.
I
sit down, careful not to touch. If I touch, it will go wrong. Rather, I instead
divert myself towards the left.
I feel my collarbone under my thumb.
Down the
center. Dry, and I feel my bone.
I sit in the backseat. I sit down. I cannot
help but to rest and sit.
They talk, but I don't hear. I pretend to be myself. I
don't hear it. I don't hear it. I don't hear it. I don't show.
My finger draws
to the right, bordering firm bone and soft tissue.
I remember to stand from the
table and put my things in storage. I do not need them.
I walk back down the
hall until I see the sign. I never bothered to read it, and I still don't.
It
draws to the edge of the torso, I feel complete.
I am sitting with those I love,
resting my head on my mom's shoulder and listening to her talk.
I am sitting.
I
hear my name, but the gesture is practiced.
I understand her voice. The
intonation is clear.
I turn to the left and look up.
I turned to the left.