Borrowed digits

imageDog tired. Bone cold. Kid sick. Sniffling and snuffling. Fighting, pushing, pulling and shoving. Pointing; the direction: anyone’s guess?

Walking, talking; whispering and muttering. Hunched shoulders, balled hands. Attention inwards. Heart concealed.

Feeling heavy. Hurting. Desperately seeking… Searching, for the point: all, any, everything, none. Attempting to locate myself – in crowds that bloat and swell. Carried along at breakneck speed: tripping and stumbling; spraining toe and twisting ankle, dislocating knee. Withdrawing – whenever, wherever, remotely possible. Using ‘said’ stolen minutes, snatched moments, borrowed digits, to calculate what from the previous whole is part of the hole that’s unravelling now.

Stumbling. Sinking. Slipping, stalling. Crying: morning, noon, and night. Holding myself together with yarn and thread; bits and pieces catching, bobbling, snagging, spooling off.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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