A Time to Dance(23)

            shoes.”

            I snort with laughter. “You mean my one

            shoe?”


Chandra looks frightened.

            I giggle and tell her,

            “You look as scared as that night Paati told us a ghost story

            and you had to run to the bathroom three times.”

            “Five times,” Chandra corrects.

            A mist-thin giggle escapes her.


My ribs must be healing.

            Laughing doesn’t hurt.

            That realization sends me into another peal of laughter.


Our laughter thickens

            into a fog

            filling the room.

            It’s a little forced, a little hysterical, but it’s good to feel

            connected.





DRESSING





I lock the door to my room.

            Balancing on my crutches, I open my dresser.

            Inside, neatly folded, sit my school uniforms:

            Western-style blue collared shirts to go with gray skirts

            or embroidered cotton kurti tops with loose salwar trousers.

            Can’t dress or undress standing,

            so I sit on the bed, wriggle into salwar trousers,

            hop on my crutches and force myself to look

            at something I’ve avoided so far:

            my full-length reflection

            in the long mirror on our wall.


A one-legged girl stares back.

            She isn’t me! a voice screams in my head.

            She isn’t me!

            Letting my crutches clatter to the floor, I fall back onto my bed.

            Not me!

            I punch my pillow.

            Not me!

            Punch. Punch. Punch.

            Not me!

            A new voice whispers,

            Be grateful you can still stand.


On crutches I face my mirror-self.

            Dare to stare

            lower down.

            One trouser leg flaps emptily below my bandaged limb.

            I try on my long school skirt and my bandaged limb

            juts out below the hem.

            I whip my skirt off. Crush it. Fling it on the floor.

            Toss all my school uniforms on the ground.


In an open drawer, I see

            the blue batik skirt Chandra and I bought

            before my accident.

            I brush my cheek against it. The skirt still smells new.

            Haven’t worn it once.

            My tears soak into the silky fabric.


Paati knocks.

            Trying not to think how good the skirt

            would have looked on me,

            I shove it in the bottom drawer.

            Pile my other suddenly too-short skirts and dresses on top.