behindtheax

dishes

It was the blue plate with the sunflowers – the last one of the set. It snapped in half as I pressed my soapy cloth into it beneath the water. It broke sharp pushing up along my wrist. I pulled my arm up quick, out of the suds to see if I was cut, my hand soft from the warm water. I immediately noticed two distinct lines running along my skin up into my palm. They ran parallel with the bluish green vein lying just below the surface. After staring at it for a moment, it appeared nothing was going to happen until finally tiny crimson pearls erupted from the thin lines like spring buds on a dogwood bush. I did cut myself. Not deep but not scratch shallow. It didn’t hurt at first but a slight stinging came a few minutes later and was with me the rest of the day, speaking up when ever I moved my wrist. I don’t know if it was just the small rush of adrenalin or something newly added to an otherwise typical day, but when I cut myself the room, for that instant, got a little brighter. Nothing like a small wound to remind me that I am not really an outsider, tucked away in my head, entirely separate from everything else. For a moment I was physical, like any typical animal, were self-preservation and the act of being makes good common sense. This small cut made me feel a lot of things simultaneously. First it distracted me. It made me vulnerable, made me strong, made me focus on the opening, on the blood, on the anticipation of pain. It scared me a little but also made me feel oddly proud like look what I just did. It somehow even disappointed me that the blood wasn’t as much as I first thought – only five small soaks on a paper towel. All in all, it brought about something unexpected, a little excitement, a lesson on being more careful the next time. It made my moment of dish washing sharp enough to stand out briefly in an otherwise typical day.

posted by mary j. @ 9:29 AM