it was a run like any other of the hundreds of miles i've run, except it was in pennsylvania and it was with my sister.
we were feeling each other out for the marathon we'll run in april, checking our pacing and letting our legs and hearts lead us around my sister's neighborhood, past the little houses with square windows, past the worn storefronts, past the streetlights.
five miles in and three blocks from home, my right pant leg caught on the edging of someone's garden. fabric in the teeth of the wood siding, i stopped mid-stride, face and hands first onto the cement.
i heard a crunch and immediately reached to my face to check my glasses. lenses intact. i handed my glasses to my sister--i think--and stood up. blood pooled on the skin of my right knee, my palms ached, my head pounded. slowly we walked home, my sister calling her partner so that home would be ready for us.
once inside, my sister surveyed the damage and i finally let out the breath and tears that had been held deep in my lungs and eyes. my body was aching.
she cleaned out my knee and palms, reassuring me that all would be well. my sister's partner made me a drink, reassuring me that all would be well. we took pictures of my bruises and scraps and sent them to our mother, telling her that all would be well. and looking at the photo of my broken palms next to my broken-open knee, my sister's partner suggested that this was a stigmata.
we wrapped my two smallest right fingers together and wrapped my hand up. they wrapped me in blankets and told me to rest.
and later we went to a jewish history museum, full of aching bodies and broken hearts and breath gone too soon.
and later still, i got home to the other side of the country and unwrapped my hand. blue and purple and green.
and later even still, i looked at the xray of my fingers and palm, the gaps and breaks, the white light of the bones.
bones that knit themselves back together. bones that needed rest--enough so that my whole body gave out for three weeks. no running. no yoga. no headstands.
bones that knit themselves together imperfectly but completely, making me whole again. making each run ever since a little bit holy.
we were feeling each other out for the marathon we'll run in april, checking our pacing and letting our legs and hearts lead us around my sister's neighborhood, past the little houses with square windows, past the worn storefronts, past the streetlights.
five miles in and three blocks from home, my right pant leg caught on the edging of someone's garden. fabric in the teeth of the wood siding, i stopped mid-stride, face and hands first onto the cement.
i heard a crunch and immediately reached to my face to check my glasses. lenses intact. i handed my glasses to my sister--i think--and stood up. blood pooled on the skin of my right knee, my palms ached, my head pounded. slowly we walked home, my sister calling her partner so that home would be ready for us.
once inside, my sister surveyed the damage and i finally let out the breath and tears that had been held deep in my lungs and eyes. my body was aching.
she cleaned out my knee and palms, reassuring me that all would be well. my sister's partner made me a drink, reassuring me that all would be well. we took pictures of my bruises and scraps and sent them to our mother, telling her that all would be well. and looking at the photo of my broken palms next to my broken-open knee, my sister's partner suggested that this was a stigmata.
we wrapped my two smallest right fingers together and wrapped my hand up. they wrapped me in blankets and told me to rest.
and later we went to a jewish history museum, full of aching bodies and broken hearts and breath gone too soon.
and later still, i got home to the other side of the country and unwrapped my hand. blue and purple and green.
and later even still, i looked at the xray of my fingers and palm, the gaps and breaks, the white light of the bones.
bones that knit themselves back together. bones that needed rest--enough so that my whole body gave out for three weeks. no running. no yoga. no headstands.
bones that knit themselves together imperfectly but completely, making me whole again. making each run ever since a little bit holy.
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