My size, My Space, My Speed. {Poem}

My size, My space, My speed.

In a field down the street from my new apartment,

well past dusk, I dropped to my knees.
Tears stinging my eyes.
I couldn’t help but do that weird sob-laugh
that rises and falls sharply inside a
chest confused with which emotion seems
most acceptable to express.
My mother has had the unfortunate luck
of calling four times this week,
each time I’m answering while
wandering somewhere outside,
sometimes in the dark,
trying not to cry.

“Mom, I’m fine,” my voice caught
like my sweatshirt sleeve had on a mailbox
twelve years ago during a run.
I had miscalculated my size, my space, my speed.
Before I knew it the arm of my favorite blue hoodie snagged,

and the material, bicep to wrist,

swung from a single thread.
I immediately returned to my dorm,
folded it neatly, placed it in a grocery bag,
and drove an hour home.
“Momma, can you fix this?”
I pulled it out and held up the damage.

A week later she met me on the sidelines
after my game and handed it back.
Right there underneath the lights,
I examined each shoulder in awe,
unable to determine which side had been mangled.
A literal seamless fix.
Later that night alone, I slipped it on,
and ran my hand up and down
the length of my arms,
finally finding, feeling, and fingering
the small knots of her careful stitch,
undetectable to the eye.

Kneeling in that damn field,
I tried again into the phone.
“Really mom, l’m fine.”

I pressed her silence to my left ear,

and placed my right hand in the grass.
I imagine reaching into a grocery bag,
unfolding and holding up my life.

“Momma, can you fix this?
Because I’ve drastically miscalculated
my size, my space, my speed.”

I’m amazed at how beautifully we mend.
How, undetectable to the eye,
we are all carefully stitched knots,
wandering somewhere outside,
sometimes in the dark,
trying not to cry.

instagram: @n.e.bondellio

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