three hours of waiting
ends:
my arm in a sling
horizontal
on the bed
my right arm
bandaged
with three cats
piles and piles of house mess —
my cat sleeps
between the X-rays
interminable recovery —
writing
with the other hand
Almost two weeks ago I fell hard onto the road, breaking the fall with my wrists (first right then left) — my dominant right forearm, elbows and shoulder surely reduced the intensity when my head hit the asphalt milliseconds later.
Nothing broke. I have x-rays to prove it. But the pain in the soft tissue, since the 5 days of prescription painkillers ran out, is breathtaking at times.
I’m easing my way back to the writing desk.
When a writer is physically unable to write, it cultivates gratitude. You become intensely grateful to have limbs, and hands that can hold pens and poetry books, and fingers that can type — and the dexterity to do it all in mind-silence.
Even more grateful in the knowing that I will recover and these hands will type again with intensity.