I had the sensation of being stiff, of having a coffee headache that crackles its way into the spine, into the bone of the head. I could feel gritty residue of the cerebellum transmitting from its plump anus sandy grains of pain into the shoulders, to the muscles. It stung behind the eyes like a grim desert, sweeping in slow motion across the orbital spheres. I was a strip of meat, set out to dry like venison on the open plain. I was alone, lonely, and utterly without purpose.
Outside the rain sounded so close, like a giant peeing on the roof.
I touched my hand just to feel the reassurance of someone’s hand on my own. I imagined that it was not my own hand. It did not feel like my own hand. It was warm and comforting and strong. I felt the tickle of a thumb upon my palm, gently scraping the indent of my lifeline.
The hand – it was warm leather, like the insides of a car traveling south on I-94. It was my grandmother’s hand on mine that night in the hospital when she knew she was dying and I thought she was being dramatic. It was my mother’s hand when I told her I was pregnant and laughed to think that I had no idea what I was doing.
It was also my hand on my daughter’s when we are standing in the elevator at my mother’s apartment building, surrounded by old people who mean well but seem creepy when they lean in close to ask her what her name is.
"It's Nordic," I tell them, but they've forgotten what that means around here.
The brain stem was cut like a head of cauliflower. The smooth stalk seems to have little in common with the rumpled contortions on top. It is thick and untroubled and holds all those pieces together.
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