Waiting
Dawn is full of muted colours this morning although the bouganvillia blaze happily pink and white against the green.Ah, that's it. All the greens are taking on the tinge of dry, of waiting for the rain, and flashy emerald has given way to ochre touched with olive here and there to say that this is grass.
The sky is thickly white just shaded here and there with shadows as light gives three dimensions to the clouds and tickles them enough to make them blush a gentle spread of colour undecided on which shade of pink, of gold, to choose.
I'm living on the surface of my skin, feeling air like water as I move my arm, feeling water pearl out of my pores as air's warm breath lets me know that I am here, feeling all the secrets that live inside my skin, all the parts that click and turn, that pulse and flow and like the dawn expand to make life big enough to stretch in.
As I stretch I notice what has changed today. My tongue no longer knows that my teeth are clean as though I took a mouthful of oil to coat the insides of my cheeks and gums, reducing contact with myself.
I noticed yestrday my voice is deeper. Not by much. As though the vocal chords are longer, slow vibrations shaping air more distinctly adding just the slightest edge of rasp to the airy flow that is my trademark.
Six o'clock and morning is established, the sky has chosen gold and daylight sprawls across my floor. In an hour I will go downstairs. My sister will drive me to the hospital again where the plan is that shining steel will be the key to all the secrets they need answers for.
I just hope we can actually do it this morning as each test makes it harder for me to volunteer my flesh to harm's way even if it is all for the best. Shrinking nerves don't care about the 'long run'. Intelligence is useless in the face of instinct except by effort that turns a heartbeat into a marathon of action and reaction.
It tires me out to think. To persuade the parts of me that have slipped their leash to come back into line. I discovered this morning that if I emulate a snail I can almost move without the jerking hitch of muscles having second thoughts. Or just not thinking.
It has taken twenty minutes to type nine lines as I write between the daydreams that I can't remember pausing for but it is easier ti sit than marshall all the forces that I never used to think about. Just to stand up.
I hope I will remember the marvel that it all is, this thing called living, moving breathing, how beautifully crazy it is when it ceases to be automatic and intllect can barely start the car.
We'll get the biopsy today. They will have what they need. And this time next week I'll be writing about the good old days before chemo.
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