A Collection of Impossibilities

I was born without a voice. Without a voice and without a history. No-one can tell me anything about the circumstances of my birth. There are names on my birth certificate, but they sound too convenient, too common. The people who abandoned me could be anyone. The doctor who presided over my birth is the same. So I can’t tell you that I came out of my mother’s womb silent, not for certain, though I like to imagine it that way: a pale infant, sucking in air and pushing it back out, without sound. What I can tell you is that my medical records, everything I have to my name, state I was born without vocal cords. There is nothing to create sound inside me. No instrument to strike, no fold to rake over and tear out cries of terror or sadness or surprise or happiness, nothing to power my laughter or my tears. I am only air. Only silence.

Observation #16, 11/20: The Brave Young Seed Who Waited

(Theme: family)

Once upon a time, there was a seed. It fell in witch country and was carried on a wind of blood and superstition deep into the Old South. There it landed in a desperate time, when the regiment was failing so miserably it turned to sixteen year old boys. It found itself on a farm, but the seed did not put down root. The war carried it into dark days and when they were done, it rode in the pocket of a soldier into the West. It watched the soldier’s family of ten children grow out of the Texas dust, but the seed did not put down root. One of the soldier’s sons, then grown, stormed away north with the seed in his luggage. He set down his load to live like a hermit in the Arizona desert, but still the seed did not put down root. A young girl came on troubled times in her home and went South to sand, cacti, tarantulas and tortoises. She stayed for a year and when it was up, the seed found its way into her shoe where it bothered her all the way home. She finally knocked it out on her front stoop. It was a grey, rainy day, but not too cold. The seed found a small patch of earth and finally put down root. First it was one, soon it was two. With all its strength the seed drew its long lost brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts and cousins and nephews and nieces from all over the country and soon they stood side by side, a regiment in the Northwest, all connected with their roots woven together.

Observation #9, 10/25: Refract

(Theme: Fairy Tales)

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived and breathed for fantasy. Everything un-real was a delight and everything impossible brought with it a sense of joy inherent in that the thing or person or place was just that: impossible. She whiled away hours and days reading, inventing, dreaming, sculpting herself until she could look into the mirror and see something impossible. And that brought joy to her. She so loved being impossible that she buried all of the possible parts of her far, far within herself, so far that they were lost.

But one day this girl began to change. Her hips swelled and stretch marks splintered her sides like trails left by snails in the dust.

She ran to her mother, “Mommy, mommy, I’m puffing up like a balloon! What is happening to me?”

But her mother did not look up from her book, and said only “It’s nothing, dear.”

And the girl went back to her impossibilities.

But then small hairs began to appear under her arms, on her legs, and in the most embarrassing of places.

She ran to her mother, “Mommy, mommy, I’m sprouting fur! What is happening to me?”

But her mother did not look up from her cooking, and said only “It’s nothing, dear.”

And the girl went back to her un-reality.

But then her chest began to inflate and jiggle when she moved.

She ran to her mother, more hysterical than ever, “Mommy, mommy my skin is sagging and falling off! What is happening to me?”

Her mother looked up from her painting and looked through her calmly. “My dear,” she took her by the shoulders, “You are growing up. Soon you will need new clothes and a new room and new kinds of books to read. You will want different things and spend time with different kinds of people. You will change and grow and learn so much.” Her mother embraced her.

“But mommy,” said the girl, “I have already changed myself in the mirror.”

“No, sweetheart,” said the mother. “You have to leave that behind.”

And the little girl ran back to her mirror and all she could see were those possible parts she had buried rising up again. She tried and tried to shape herself back the way she used to be. She tried once, and the stretch marks burned brighter. She tried again and the hairs grew darker. She tried a third time and her chest grew heavier than ever! She tried a final time and she burst wide open, and was standing there the way she was supposed to be: impossible. And that brought her joy.