Space and time are not conditions in which we live, they are modes in which we think. —Albert Einstein
You can be anywhere in this zone of sky and water and possibility. Forget what you think you
know. Forget what you have read about “How to Write”. Forget what you have lost. Begin here: I am time…
And, here is Cin Norris, in response to the July 4 prompt:
All the attention she received was heady stuff for a youngster from a freshly broken home. First came the dog bite, which wasn’t cool, but the fuss made over her by the paramedics and the police was self-affirming. It was her first introduction to the concept of pain equaling pleasure and even in third grade she knew enough to keep it a secret.
The bite healed. Everyone had heard the story and no one wanted to see the scar anymore. Perhaps it was only natural that her family suggested she was attention-seeking when she began to complain of shoulder pain, but even they couldn’t deny the lump that slowly began to rise over her collarbone.
If it hurt worse than the dog bite had, at least the panic over her condition (cancer? Leukemia? Something else?) was proportionally greater. There were a multitude of trips to different cities, to different doctors who ordered different tests. (Not cancer. Not leukemia. Something else.) MRIs, CT scans and dozens of blood draws.
She showed no fear and was rewarded for her bravery. Every needle stick resulted in an ice cream cone. She could not move her arm for the pain in her collarbone.
(“There’s a doctor in Phoenix who is visiting from Japan. He’s the only one who has seen a case like this.”)
(“There is no name for this condition.”)
(“We’d like to try surgery.”)
Everyone wanted to hear the story. Everyone wanted to see the scar. Everyone felt so bad when she had to have an I.V. drip for six weeks. Everyone was horrified when she became allergic to the penicillin. Everyone watched to see if she would get better.
It was paradise.