Chibimagic's Weblog


Posted on: March 20, 2014

Two years ago, in an effort to impress a boy, I bought a new dress, dragged my full length mirror into the other room, leaned it against the door, and took a picture. Within the hour, I promptly forgot about the mirror and opened the door again, sending it crashing to the ground. Though I picked up all the pieces I could find, tiny slivers continued to elude me for months.

One day, fresh out of the shower, I found some of those slivers with my foot. Cursing, I cleaned up the blood and pulled out the pieces I could see, but walking continued to be painful. Try as I might, I couldn’t locate the source of the pain. J offered me his eyes, his tweezers, his magnifying hobby light, but the only thing we found buried in there was flesh and blood.

I figured it was my imagination; or just the pain of an open wound. But two more times the wound opened up in the ball of my foot. I resorted to limping; to thickly cushioned socks and shoes. I feared this was the beginning of Being Old.

Six weeks later, in a fit of rage, or possibly boredom, I plopped down on J’s couch again: tweezers and his sharpest kitchen knife clutched in one hand, a bottle of rubbing alcohol in the other. Again, as I peered through the magnifying light at the slit in my foot, I saw nothing. But I poked. And I prodded. And I felt the hard nub of something that was not organic. I wrestled with my skin, pulling it this way and that. And something began to emerge. With a final nudge, the last piece of glass splinter popped from my foot.

While I had been living my life, my body had been hard at work. Slowly it had repaired itself and worked the foreign object to the surface. My efforts to accelerate the process had only led to more suffering.

I think of this story now, as I sit. Waiting for my heart to work out that last pointy shard. For it to rise far enough to the surface that I can pluck it from my body and free myself.

Was it real? It seemed so insignificant and dull, sitting there on the table. I set my foot down and eased my weight onto it. Slowly. Testing. Not trusting that it was over. Waiting for the sharp stab of pain. But there was none. I hobbled over to the hardwood floor of his kitchen and tested my weight there too. Still none. Step—wait—step. No pain; no blood. It was over.

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