38. The bluebird of happiness flies over the battlefield and lands on a boot left behind.
I had never felt so much pain as the pain that was flooding through my foot at that moment. My worn brown sandal lay off to the side, forgotten, as I struggled even to just breathe in, the world faded to a pinpoint. Finally, all at once I was able to heave oxygen in, hunched over and crying out, the world and reality rushing back.I lurched forward after a few moments of moaning; stumbling, again crying out as I tried to slide my foot back into my sandal. My landlord drove down the hill as I was drag-limping along and offered me a ride into town. I humbly accepted.
My professor sent me to the hospital upon seeing the alarming purple shades forming on my foot. They took x-rays and called me in to discuss them. Not broken, they assured me, but badly sprained. Crutches would be necessary. My heart sank at this irritating burden. I wouldn't even be able to drive.
I wasn't used to getting around this way. In the cafeteria I needed the help of another, or I would need to fetch my dinner in small quantities. People often weren't around when I struggled with a door or to get down stairs. I humped along while desperately trying to hold onto school books. I calculated faster roots and began to plan ahead in anticipation of inconveniences. Strangely, I started to feel more independent, not less.
Things had been going badly with my boyfriend for awhile. I hadn't wanted to face the colder moments, the greater distances between us. I can't explain how an old sandal resulting in a twisted ankle ended up giving me more courage, but it did. In our new apartment, sitting on the green velvet couch my mom had given us, I looked at the purples and yellows of my foot. I heard the front door open and shut. "We need to talk," I told him.
Sometimes vignettes are hardest for already strong writers, writers used to having their way with words--vignettes demand that words and writers coexist in a somewhat different relationship--the writer has to trust the words, perhaps fewer than usual, to still and somehow carry more weight than usual, which means she has to trust the reader to read. Sorry if this sounds all mystical-like.
ReplyDeleteHere's this piece stripped out and vignette-ized as far as I can:
I had never felt so much pain as the pain that was flooding through my foot at that moment. My worn brown sandal lay off to the side, forgotten, as I struggled even to just breathe in, the world faded to a pinpoint. Finally, all at once I was able to heave oxygen in, hunched over and crying out, the world and reality rushing back.
I lurched forward after a few moments of moaning; stumbling, again crying out as I tried to slide my foot back into my sandal.
They took x-rays. Not broken, they assured me, but badly sprained. Crutches would be necessary.
In the cafeteria I needed the help of another, or I would need to fetch my dinner in small quantities. People often weren't around when I struggled with a door or to get down stairs. I humped along while desperately trying to hold onto school books. I calculated faster routes and began to plan ahead in anticipation of inconveniences. Strangely, I started to feel more independent, not less.
I can't explain how an old sandal resulting in a twisted ankle ended up giving me more courage, but it did. In our new apartment, sitting on the green velvet couch my mom had given us, I looked at the purples and yellows of my foot. I heard the front door open and shut. "We need to talk," I told my boyfriend.