The day is dismal and elated and it isn’t even noon. If the hands of the clock didn’t say 11:48 a.m. I swear I would get back into my pajamas and get in bed. To my dismay, I have only begun to conquer the hours of this day. Currently, Salem is sleeping on the afghan covered orange couch. She went effortlessly, presumably because she had just annihilated her chin on the wooden knee of Buddha. (She has a load of defense mechanisms.) The proof is on the right side of my gray tank top where a ghostly shaped, crusty smudge of Salem’s blood casually sits.
Let me back up.
We pull in the tight parking space in front of our loft building. With two sticky, old coffee cups in one hand, a heavy bag full of Composition theory books strapped to my back and a restless child on my right hip, we make our way through the drizzle, up the stairs to the elevator. She loves the elevator. Every single time she must stand alone, banging on the glass watching the trees get farther away. Finally, the heavy metal door cascades open and out tumbles Salem. Crash number 10 of the day. Every crash is equally as gut wrenching and tormenting. Down the long and narrow, fluorescent concrete hallway I can see the doormat that screams “HOME” and “MORE COFFEE”. Of course, the hanging red fire extinguisher on the empty white wall captures her attention. Here we stand. Here we always stand. She touches, pokes and examines the extinguisher and finally decides we can proceed on the rugged journey to our loft.
Insert key, turn handle.
Success.
We are home. It is warm and smells like coffee. Perfect.
I turn to the sink where I anticipate placing the dirty coffee cups. A tower of menacing dishes greets me. Plan B. I just sit the cups along the edge. Dishes can wait. I am tired. I am feverish. I unload the backpack and turn to find Salem. I see her turn the corner around the counter and head towards the living room. I am right behind her. One inch too far behind. Apparently, she trips on her own feet and falls in a violent heap onto the life size Buddha. I hear her chin crack on his lotus positioned knee. I know what comes next. The painful and terribly long moment of silence where her face is frozen in an “o”. Next, a high-pitched, agonizing bloody scream of pain follows. I pick her up hoping her teeth aren’t broken, hoping she didn’t hurt herself too badly. I coax her into a relaxing state by singing little tunes, nursing her and loving her. She falls to sleep within minutes. It is well after her departure into dreamland that I see the blood stain on my shirt. I am still unsure where the source is.
Somewhere within her, a wound needs my healing.
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