Monday, November 20, 2006
Outwardly, the cervical collar appears to be working. Three fingers and part of her palm were numb last week; now it's only the ring finger. The collar's not so bad most of the day, though by the time she goes to bed her neck and chin itch. Inwardly, she feels like a dachshund.
A note from a friend reminds her: there are 33 shopping days left till Christmas. Including the rest of today. Including Christmas Eve. This year, the Christmas season began just after Halloween. Windows decorated. The minute the election ads got off t.v. the Christmas ads began. Target showing a winter wonderland. Best Buy showing a wrapped up package popping open, almost as if it exploded.
Forget the seconds, then add up the numbers: seven plus nine plus one equals seventeen. Thirteen plus eight equals twenty-one. The story of my life. At seventeen locked in my room, curtains closed, in drugged sleep by the time my parents came home from work. At twenty-one, newly ensconced in New York, friends for the first time in my life. Seventeen plus twenty-one equals thirty-eight. It's been thirty-seven years now, and I still have some of those same friends. So I feel as if I've earned the right to hope. Seven plus nine plus one equals seventeen. Thirteen plus eight equals twenty-one. Mystics build the body of God with numbers such as these.