Muristek
What was it but an act of abnegation when she shook her head and said, her voice small enough to slide under a locked door, no pain no pain. She who had always given us reassurance, though now nothing could be assured. Those were her patient days— her body a tool she could no longer wield, an awkwardness, a jerking here and there when she tried. For many years we watched her move her body as if it were a thing she’d always easily master— like a driver who could carry on a full conversation with a passenger, about the book on tape both were listening to, could take her right hand off the wheel to raise a pointer finger in the air for emphasis, and still, still, you’d never lose confidence in her control of the car. For years. But now her body was a weight only professionals could maneuver. We interceded when they prodded us forward telling us how to move her, how to touch her, and where. They, clipped and knowing in their scrubs, and us undone, revealed in our clumsiness as if we wore thick asbestos gloves. There were other things I had wanted to say here, other territory to which I’d intended to travel. But now I see her in that bed, the lights lowered for evening, her body an unmaneuverable mass in front of her almost, it seems, smothering her small voice— No pain no pain. And I wonder why we’d even asked if she felt any. Did we think we could help her, us with our muffled hands?
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