an abstract on the scale
“When I call something concrete, I’m calling it something tangible, something that catches light, with texture, temperature, weight. A small, lovely group of writers has been joining me in using the concrete to speak of the abstract. How else can we show you the invisible things?“, Amber at The Runamuck. Doing her writing prompt today: an abstract on the scale.
we hold atticus on the scale with us, and then without us, to figure out how much he weighs. when its me with him, the scales keep marching up even though his pajamas fall off of him now.
i wonder how much worry weighs; does it have numbers like pounds? at meal times he’s not eating his food and it all turns to fret and feeds me. tonight he asked “what happened” and i flashed back to the night we are sure that “it” happened and he asked that over and over again. my heart started racing until i realized i had turned down the volume on winnie the pooh and he noticed the change. at night, the toilet flushes it’s pipes and every time i think it’s him throwing up.
more than likely this worry and tired are invisible weights and the climbing numbers are the bread and the chocolate from the good hearted people leaving food at our door. and this precious one inside of me is taking up more room, each elbow and foot having less space to swim, closer to the surface for me to feel.
i am thankful that the numbers on the scales have never been the marionette strings that pull my emotions up or down. i feel their tug when i see the line underneath my chin filling in, but they are cut loose pretty easily. it will fall off with nursing, i tell myself.
it’s the weight without numbers on scales that are holding me so tight, making me dance when i want to stay still. it’s the tired. the worry. the patience wearing thin.
it’s 9:30 and time for bed. life is a marathon, not a sprint, i am learning; the next day determined by the night before. i am learning too that there is a beauty laid bare in sickness, that is not in health. when he pats the space next to him and asks me to stay in bed next to him, when he and daddy spoon on the moon watching football, when he runs his fingertips through my hands…the quiet lets me feel each tender detail held in a moment like one can see the millions of colors in a water droplet if time stops, and the sun hits it right.