I have a quiet privacy. It is the hush in my eyes when I am asked a question or the hesitation in my answer. November comes and changes me. I close in around my family and my heart. I desire fire and light. California tosses and turns in her bed, heat comes and goes, some days are frigid. I might have an autoimmune problem, I think, looking at my hands. They overreact to the cold. The fingers hurt and their stubby ends turn red. I don't have beautiful hands. I already have two autoimmune problems: hypothyroidism and endometriosis. Both prompted me to dramatic dietary changes. We eat nuts, peanut butter, whole grain breads, vegetables, fruits, yogurt, milk, goat milk, chicken, egg. Whole foods, largely organic. We take vitamins. We eat junk on Friday Night Family Night. I ate gluten free for the better part of a year. Still my body struggles to maintain energy and health. A childhood of terror wormed it's way into the cells. This is what happened to me. It is what happens to everyone. Our cells react like fetus in the womb. Abuse, constant fear, these loud screams outside the womb, and our cells kick and turn and their tiny mouths open and close and they are changed forever.
Winter approaches and I am slower, less sweet, less ripe.
I can feel the world moving around me and I am fascinated with it's workings. I stand in line and listen to the talking around me. I shut the door to my car and watch a couple of crows repeatedly drop a hard shell, trying to split it open on the asphalt. At work the babies cry and catch my eyes before taking another breath to scream, making sure I am watching, making sure I care. At home my children move as quickly and strangely as always, unique and totally separate from me, never separate from me. Mr. Curry moves toward and away from me in the tide of marriage. We cleave. The Hispanic workers play penny games on the concrete in the sides of alleys. A woman in the car next to me opens her mouth as wide as she can at the stop light. Maybe she is worried she has the flu. Maybe she is checking for herpes. Maybe she has dry mouth or lipstick on her teeth. The park is full of birds and their cries scatter with the leaves as I move through the dirt path. At night the TV talks and dances and I feel the quiver of the arrow as it hits its mark.
