Headache

Her head is like a constant reminder that not all is right in her world. She stretches her neck back and forth—gingerly—such a vulnerable stem, the neck, a pathway to this war zone, this trouble spot. 

There must have been a time when her head was just a head—a place to memorize facts about history and solve algebra problems. It was a good head. It did the job, got good marks. And yet all the time— rivulets of fear, resentment, made their way up her neck into the folds of her brain. Never good enough. Always afraid. Never popular. The small streams flowed into the small spaces, into her memories, becoming pink, fleshy petals, folds of her head— brain layers—there to probe and pulse, as they do now. Pain pulses in the temples, up the back of the neck. So much a part of her, now they are like the fabric of her life. There are other fabrics— smoother, silkier,  like warm blankets or skirts that swish and twirl— exotic— flirting with the air, full of poetry. Oh, how she wishes for this fabric to be all that she is. Whirling and flashing into tiny blood vessels into the folded-over parts of her. Clearing like an ocean breeze— blowing away the crumpled layers that squeeze and cram against nerve endings— that hurt and hurt. 

She looks into the mirror, sees the strain around her eyes, sees the back of her eyes wincing against the light that feels too bright, too invasive. She longs to lie on a field of cool soft grass.  No. No.  Lying down makes it worse. She longs to be lifted and carried by strong arms and soothed by a voice that speaks the pain away. What words can reach into the hidden creases and smooth her cringing flesh? Soft, soft words, like angel wings across her forehead, closing her eyes into sleep. So when she wakes, she's new and whole— open to the air and the sunlight, like a fresh leaf… uncurling.

Written on June 11, 2020