Back in that kitchen.
Steady hands in the lukewarm water. Leaving the sharps ’til last. I have to work up the courage to touch butter knives.
Every metallic edge burns. But I don’t let go. The heat is another warmth.
What would it feel like to run this BBQ fork over the tender skin of my forearms?
Even through the Pier 1 dish cloth, the sharps speak to me in taunts.
Back now, in my here kitchen, I have stopped breathing except for the shallow breath of survival.
Today, with my hips stiff as they are, it’s more difficult to shake the weight of this remembering.
Irritation funnels through me in the form of judgements.
“I should be farther along. I haven’t let go enough. My heart is closed.”
“QUICK,” I tell myself from another part of my brain, “name three things you’re grateful for.”
Yorkie Girl, sunshine, self-acceptance.
I still feel shaken. A simple meditation brings me closer. I pick up my phone and write: sliver sad, mud alone, itchy fear.
Leaving the chopped herbs on the block, I pull on a wool sweater and head out for a walk.
In the fresh air, it’s easier to find myself.