travellingchel

By me. I wanted the rain. I pictured a sea in navy blue rolling above, a fragment of moon still haunting the day. I got instead: a cold, blank sky and a sun hiding somewhere behind it all. When I left the hospital room, I looked down at my lap, my pale green gown bunched on my thighs like so many wrinkles on an old, disused woman. My legs motionless beneath it. They have men and women and other survivors come and talk to you in track suits, or pin striped business suits, or linen pants and pink cashmere sweaters, to tell you about life after an accident. “It’s been a blessing, really, losing my legs.” Or “Since my own accident I see everything differently. It filled a hole in my life I never knew was there.” But her voice is raspy and it sounds like her holes have found their way into her speech instead. I’m supposed to visualize me walking again, or kicking a soccer ball. I’ve never played soccer. And my visions don’t include me with two working legs. My first day back...

The egg beater, so small and untidy, laying among it all. The flour, that huge bag, sagging under its own weight, flour leaking from its coners and those eggs. All neatly in line, but two-two empty spaces there. The tiles beneath are glossy, and I know will be cold. Egg yoke spilled, just more gloss on gloss. My dishwasher open, the lid hanging loosely. The dishes inside somewhere-behind in the dark. And my fridge. That big mass of stainless steel, but not so stainless after all. There, in the corner, a smudge. Grey meeting black meeting grey.

Speckled There was bright light in a small garden, and shade beneath a few trees. A small nun sat speckled dark and light, on a bench beneath a tree, space on all sides of her. Soon a taller nun joined her. Here they sat outside of the sun, knees almost touching. Their faces were plain, unassuming. They looked the same. Anonymous under black robes and wimples. ‘It’s God’s gift to us.’ The taller nun shifted her wimple, showing dark hair that framed the white of her face. Dark circle around light. She moved closer to the small nun. Their feet touched. Their knees. Their shoulders. Their bodies angled together. Heat rose to pale cheeks, marking them both. ‘A gift, or a test? ’ She paused, then, ‘If Mary knew-‘ ‘Mary won’t.’ ‘She’s the head.’ ‘God’s the head.’ ‘That isn’t any better for us.’ The color slipping away, then, softly, from beneath curled shoulders, ‘It’s not natural. This is not natural. We. are not natural.’ ‘No. God always has chosen special people. The Israelites, the Apost...