moments of perception

1. In the subway, a young girl is asleep in her stroller, legs sprawled showing her underwear. Children can get away with anything. She has one shoe on, the other sits in her lap. I am too old to pass out on the subway and show my underwear to the car and have only one shoe on. When a child does this, it is precious. When a grown woman does it, it is a drinking problem.




2. I lie down in the bath tub, flinch as the water seeps inside my ears. I remember doing the same thing as a girl, and I remember hearing the tip tap of my heart once all the water stopped sloshing. Only now I don't hear anything other than a far off disturbance. I've never experienced a stampede, but I imagine this is the sound they make from a distance. I think about the things I've never: eaten lobster, watched an opera, had a seizure, learned a language other than my tongue, been to any country other than my own, seen any coast other than my own, endured any serious lasting want other than loneliness. Upon further thought, the distant rushing I hear under water is the blood inside of me.




3. I am on hold, calling in sick to work. This is a time when I am actually sick, and I know my hoarse voice sounds fake. The manager asks when I think I'll feel better. I am feverish and shivering and throwing up and this is the point in being sick when one cannot remember how being healthy feels. Likewise, once health improves, one cannot remember the pain of the stomach ache.