It’s as if some giant, invisible hand pressed down and stilled me.  Wrapped feverish fingers around my small frame, humbling me into a great pause. As I twist in bedsheets and a pile of tissues, the hand gives a swift flick to my cell phone and slams the laptop shut with a single tap of its thumb. This overbearing palm insists complete submission – no distraction.  I’m left to breathing and the thoughts behind closed eyes.

From my bed I craft partial posts for the Archives in my mind, then leave them unfinished to seep into my fluid haze.

Budgetary calculations raise their numeric heads (fueled by the fact that I’ve missed a week of work due to this illness).

I ponder access points to time travel.  What exactly is a morphic field?

Think of portrait artist Alice Neel, who raised two sons but never sacrificed her art. Her boys say they suffered because of it and Neel’s work was never recognized till old age.

I dwell on a summer scene in Seattle, 1994.  Me, on a porch in a hand-me down skirt.  He, the Swiss traveler with a golden goatee and clear eyes.  How we threw our watches away at the Center of the Universe and left the city in my Subaru.  We found the lighthouse that marked my ancestor’s utopia.  Slept in island forests.  10,000 Maniacs in the tape deck.  The warmth of fire.

photo by Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved

My muscles ache despite five pillows.  Outside lightening flashes bright.  It is silent in the pregnant pause.  Then the thunder booms.

Here in the dark, day four in this bed, I’m living in the space between.  Like that span between light and sound, I am suspended.  Charged but not yet fully realized.

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