A Time to Dance(21)

            As though I’m a star in some sad soap opera.

            Not “was.”

            Am. Am. Am.

            I move past the nurses, my crutches tick-tocking on the tiles

            like the pendulum of an old clock.

            Not quite a dance rhythm.

            Yet.





RETURNING

to

NORMAL





Squashed between Paati and Ma in the backseat of a taxi

            speeding farther and farther away from the hospital,

            my stomach shrinks fist-tight with fear

            as a bus overtakes us,

            passing so close by I could touch it if I reached out the window.

            My palms feel wet.

            Sweat, just sweat. Not blood.

            A lorry honks, coming at us,

            speeding on the wrong side of the road.

            Dust clouds fly into my eye through the open window.

            The smoke makes me gag.

            I tense,

            though I feel Paati’s fingers massaging the back of my neck,

            trying to calm me.

            I hear Ma say, “Please drive slower. Be careful.”

            “Don’t worry, madam.

            Ten years I’ve been driving in Chennai city traffic.”

            The driver screeches to a halt

            in the middle of the concrete jungle where we live.


Our apartment building looks unwelcoming as I enter.

            Clutching my crutches, I stand at the bottom step,

            thinking through the motions of climbing on crutches.

            Feeling alone. Frightened.

            Far from Jim’s encouraging voice.

            Missing his strength, his support.

            Missing the safety of the hospital.


Pa says, “Veda, would it be easier if you leaned on me

            and left your crutches behind?”

            Maybe,

            but I say, “No.”

            Ma pulls anxiously on an earlobe.

            Her diamonds scatter the sunlight.

            Paati nods. Her nod says, “You can do it.”

            I plant my crutches on the ground,

            propel my body upward.

            My leg reaches the first step.

            Then, my crutches join me.

            Pa says, “Don’t worry. I’m behind you.”


“How is Veda?” Mrs. Subramaniam shouts.

            I want to yell, Ask me. The accident didn’t damage my ears.

            Her shout brings other neighbors out.

            They crowd on the landings or lean out their doorways,

            watching me labor up the steps

            of our shared staircase.

            They make me feel as if

            I’m the star attraction