Is this me? Walking down the dark hall, hands outstretched to brace myself on the cold surface of either side. The floor beneath me only just reaching my feet. I can feel myself getting closer as the end gets farther and farther away.
Is this me? Cracking shoulders, neck, and knees. Becky says to take more vitamins, pills, oils. What I need is a strong Nordic woman, well-versed in the art of muscular release, stretching me out on a table and kneading me like so much dough.
Is this me? Sitting in a shape of my own devising, clutching my toe in one hand and my glass in the other. Smelly and graphic, rundown and all too well-defined. My phone sits on a cushion in an adjacent room and I can only hope that it's too far, and too cushioned, for me to hear any attempt at communication.
Is this me? Eating ice cream for breakfast. Fingering through Becky's shirts. Vacuuming this hard wood floor. She should be home soon and I need to start waking up earlier. Brush the mint chocolate chip out of my teeth just as the clock hits five.
Is this me? X'ing the days off the calendar one by one, waiting for the big red O. Sharpie-stained fingers seasoned with potato chip salt, these pants used to be my good ones. There are a lot of things, now, of mine, that used to be good. Sometimes I think the days of two versions are over.
Is this me? I guess I don't know who else it would be. And, furthermore, I do not know whom to ask.
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