branches & bones

He said,

"I have to feel my bones

to make sure nothing's broken."

And sure enough,

when I glanced back to where he sat

strapped in

on the road to IKEA this morning,

I saw a strange half-smile on his face

and his fingers

playing his ribs

like piano keys.

I said,
"do you hurt?"

He said, 

"i don't know."

I said, 

"if something were broken

you would hurt."

He said, 

"sometimes

when something breaks

it just feels like nothing,

right?"

He was thinking of the tree

in our front yard,

whose living branch

he ripped from the trunk

just as it began to bud

last week.

I have to feel my bones

to make sure nothing's broken.

My first thought was

your body will tell you -

interrupt you -

if something breaks.

It won't be like windshield wipers

where you can go about your day

(picking up a jar of olives

sliding overdue library books in the bin)

and you only realize something's busted

when you reach for it

and it fails.

It will be like the door falling off the car:

a wincing screech,

a shower of sparks,

a blow.

You can't miss it.

I suppose we're both right;

although I'm right about broken bones,

he's right that sometimes

some things

break without pain.

Some breaks don't begin to ache

until you find them.

The break feels like nothing

while it's waiting to be found.

___

A group of adults sat at a table

and one by one we introduced ourselves. 

By the time it was my turn to say hello

my greatest fear had been confirmed:

Everyone there had credentials

but me.

Everyone there had a brand identity - 

the entrepreneur

the academic

the tech expert

the brand manager in his thick frames,

and me.

I felt like I should rise

to take coffee orders.

Pleasant service is, 

after all, my wheelhouse.

I should have just said

"Hi, I'm Katie.

I'm a stay-at-home mom

and I'm here to help."

If I'd been brave I would have.

But I was afraid that if I did

the only thing I'd be

(to this group)

would be upbeat, eager,

and good for a cooler of orange slices.

My heart fluttered and my calculating mind raced

as the woman ahead of me described

her travels to Africa and Asia

as a consultant to various aid organizations.

Oh shit, that's so cool.

I knew I couldn't out-business

or out-degree anyone at the table, 

which left me with only one option:

I had to out-creative them.

Creative works - people will think you're cool

and that you might know good bands,

but only if you're demonstrably successful with your creativity.

If you stumble when describing your one-woman show

or reveal that it closed after 1 half-full night,

then everyone will know you're just a dumb flake

who was too whiny to handle a real job.

Me? I write a blog that a few people read.

(Hi, Mom.)

So I had to find a way

to say I was more,

and the fact that the way needed finding

made me think,

Am I not more

anymore?

So I skipped the part of my resume that included

telemarketer

call center employee

shot girl

bartender

receptionist,

and said,

"Hi, I'm Katie. I'm 

a freelance writer and blogger 

with a background in education 

and the arts.

I currently stay home 

with my two young boys."

(You have to say currently

or everything else

doesn't matter.)

Good thing I was wearing pants

with a zipper

or they might not have bought it.

As it was, I cracked a few jokes

that were edgy enough to break the ice

and support my assertion that I was

a creative type.

I basically majored in cracking wise

and faking it

so I'm not uncomfortable putting on a show.

But there's not much difference between performing

and hiding.

Some people hide right in front of you,

while you're laughing at something they said.

I'll never forget the acting teacher who stopped me

mid-speech,

walked up to me in front of the class

and whispered in my ear:

"You are enough."

I burst - really, burst - into tears,

as if I'd been kicked in the chest.

He made me try again,

right then,

crying.

And math majors think their classes are hard.

I'd had no idea something was broken

until he found it,

placed a finger right on the wound,

and said, "here it is. 

Here is where you are broken. 

Now, you can break."

I imagine saying what I want to say

when I introduce myself.

It comes out righteous

and punishingly honest,

ruler slaps of words, meted blows.

"Hi, I'm Katie.

When I got pregnant, I was relieved

that I could stop pretending to want a career.

I am building a strange fucking awesome family,

an enterprise that consumes me

not because I am simple or weak,

but because the job lasts forever.

Literally. Forever.

If you don't have kids then

no, you cannot imagine staying home with the kids.

Do not say that you think you'd get bored.

That's a shitty thing to say

about my life's work.

Before I had kids I had many pointless jobs

that you probably assume

only high-school students,

stupid people,

or single mothers do.

I am not here to 'keep busy.'

And you are?"

When someone asks who you are

you should be able to say

me.

Right?

How much does that degree cost?

The one where you can just say

me.

___

Yesterday he snapped a living branch

from a tree that was probably planted

around the year my grandmother was born. 

Drunk on early sun

the tips of its spidery stems 

had just swollen into tight buds.

He swung the torn-off branch in the driveway

making soft shooting sounds

and stumbling a bit - 

it wasn't a twig, after all.

I knelt down around him 

and placed my hands over his

on the branch.

"Please don't do that,"

I said.

"The tree needs this branch 

to make food from the sun."

"There are lots of branches,"

he said.

"But there was only one of this one,

and now

it's gone."

He studied the branch in his hand

and dropped it suddenly on the ground.

"Put it back."

"I can't," I said.

"Once you break something

like that

you can't fix it."

"Yes you can," he said,

"of course you can!"

the way I do when he insists

he can't put the blocks back in their bin:

chirpily, testily,

like a camp counselor

who was just about to snap

when the boss walked by.

"I know you can fix it." 

"No, baby.

I can't."

I couldn't see his face

but I could feel his body still

the way it does when all his movement

goes inside his mind.

Then he pushed away from me 

and stomped on the branch,

with a grunt.

Its buds quivered

and he stomped again

to watch them shiver under his feet.

He muttered something.

"What's that, baby?"

"I want grape juice

now!"

He roared,

his face twisted,

his shoulders coiled,

his fingers curled into tiger paws.

I asked,

"Are you okay?"

He growled at me

and crouched to attack.

"I'm a tiger!

A fierce tiger!"

"Oh yes, I can see that. 

You have big claws and a fierce roar.

Is there a big feeling inside you, 

tiger?"

"I'm mad."

"I can see that.

You're really mad. 

You look like you want to hurt something."

"I do!

I wanna scratch!"

He swiped the air with his paw.

"I've felt like that.

I usually feel like hurting someone

when I'm hurting, too.

Do you have another feeling

other than mad?"

"I'm super sad,"

he said

in his own small voice.

"About the tree?"

"Yeah."

I reached for him.

He came to me and asked,

"is the tree hurt?"

I didn't know what to say.

Of course he did;

he ripped a piece from the core.

But of course he did 

nothing more

than what happens to everything that grows

and buds

and breaks.

If you liked this poem, you might check out this one, which explores a much younger Chicken's fraught relationship with brokenness.