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LAce Posted Monday, March 21st, 2005
Scar Tissue
Alyssa Hayek

The winter my daughter was eighteen months old I abandoned her behind a door, curtain really, in an emergency room where doctors and nurses scurried like leaves, terror-blown through the halls. I say abandoned because this is what it is to know how many steps fall between a chair and a needle diving marrow-deep into the shin; to sink against a wall and dodge what mothers do. We pretend it demands nothing to sit silent and dice our selves into pieces that lodge indigestible in the throat; to grind worry and the future like seeds between the teeth. The memory gathers dust until, years later, the air is bright, sky holding the improbable depth of a lagoon as she flips from the dive. Then I see droplets, perfect as beeps rising roundly from a heart monitor, and that scar misplaced knee-high by growth.

Comments [post a comment]

Posted by Katrina Denza on Monday, March 21st, 2005 at 8:40 PM
This is so rich and powerful. I loved: "scurried like leaves, terror-blown through the halls," and "perfect as beeps rising roundly from a heart monitor."

Posted by Kay Sexton on Tuesday, March 22nd, 2005 at 9:44 AM
'to grind worry and the future like seeds between the teeth' - what wonderful and terrifying imagery. Our mother's mother's mother did this, just as we do, and so we live through our parents and our children. Lovely work.

Posted by Sharon Hurlbut on Tuesday, March 22nd, 2005 at 10:12 AM
Beautiful, Alyssa! A perfect snapshot of motherhood and anxiety.

Posted by Anna McDougall on Wednesday, March 23rd, 2005 at 9:59 AM
My goodness, I have felt this! Wonderful, hopeful ending.

Posted by Ella McCrystle on Thursday, April 7th, 2005 at 3:03 PM
What a wonderful piece. I'm not a mother, but the empathy I just felt may be the closest I'll ever come to being one. Thank you -- Ella



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