Monday, January 14, 2019
Rain slices through me as if I was the grassy field. No matter how many times you turn the key, the lock will not open. The birth of someone’s hair piled high this morning on her head, which she did with her only remaining arm and hand. VA hospital, Wade Park.
She’s here in mental health with the
rest of us, as if there were answers. There are no answers. She could have had help tying up her hair that way, on top of her head; I don’t think you can do that with only one hand, but I may be wrong. People under duress do amazing things to save themselves from oblivion. Back outside
in the rain,
nothing has changed. The woman who lost her arm to another war would not look up from the floor where she kept her eyes until the nurse called her name. She was tall when she stood up and her hair was wildly trying to free itself from the bun she had tied it into so carefully in the morning. Another turn of the wheel is all, and when it comes to rest this time, someone’s arm is missing, and someone else’s mind.