Crawling uphill’s the hardest.
Left fist, right fist, swing them round.
Junior calls me The Sidewinder, on account of this poor dance of mine, but I will keep my peace about the boy. Polio might have taken my legs, but my thoughts still soar among them starlings.
Left fist, right fist, swing them round.
The Maine winds do shake these tawny grasses. So why can’t I hear the music no more?
Left . . .
Mama told me that my legs stopped working altogether when Charles stopped writing me. But Pastor Goodrum would call that a wicked sort of embellishment. My legs stopped working when God dried my nerves up as rough and black as that tree I’m fixing toward.
Right . . .
‘Course, Pop always says the devil’s in the details.
Swing them . . .
There.
Breath comes harder up here, more ragged-like. I sit my forehead against the trunk’s scars.
C.O. + C.S.
I stop shaking when bark draws blood.
When the tree gives up its music.
“Boston’s not so far, Chrissie.”
“It’s farther than my arms.”
“But I’ll come for you next spring. When our tree here is all color and scent. When the starlings are building their nests.”
“Show me how you’ll come, Charlie.”
He laughs.
He shows me.
Left arm, right arm, swing me round.
Sometimes, sitting against our tree, it’s like he never put me down.
Because once, when swaddled beneath its branches, I did believe the world had legs.
[This piece was written for Jason Evans' "Whispers" contest at The Clarity of Night, which you can enter through 11 p.m. on Feb. 27th. I love Jason's photo, as seen above, and it immediately reminded me of Andrew Wyeth's Christina's World, which I've shown below for comparison. Thanks to Jason and Aine for a great contest!]
