October, and I am sick. I walk the mile west of my house slowly
to the neighborhood sequoia. I named her koya for my daughter
because naming claims. And I am covetous.
When I approach koya, I reach out to remember craving
the rough skin of another. But I am sick.
I can hardly type this my hands are so numb.
My daughter bristles when I say the word vulnerable
about my body. So I say bruised. Koya. Me.
Spongy hollows of want.
20 years ago? 40? The two of us remember musk and bounce.
The story of how to heal. This morning the sun
vibrates psychedelic. A shroud of smoke over acres lost.
5,000 in Eastern Oregon (August)
20,000 in British Columbia (September)
15,000 outside Portland (today).
My daughter can’t ride her bike to school. Particulate levels
are worse than in Bangladesh. (How do children
ride to school in Bangladesh?)
Let us pray for cool water.
Being monoecious, being all, koya is stronger
than I’ll ever be. I thirst for their strength.
The rain that won’t come for me.
October again and I have no regret for what this body has been—
lover, mother, able. On good days I logic: who isn’t dying?
Who isn’t trying to live?
My brother died of ALS at 53.
It was fast and terrible, despite my father pushing
supplements; my nephews pushing hope. There was nothing to be done.
But remember we can give our sorrow to the trees
and they give us back breath. I want to do something.
My doctor said I must box breathe three times a day. My nervous
system craves a slow heart. Multiple Sclerosis means
the smallest speck of stress sparks the nerves in my hands,
in my legs, in my brain till I can’t __________ again.
Koya’s rings tell the history of the earth, much as
my spine tells mine. I am scarred—
white planets smoldering in the dark of my back.
I am scared. I don’t need an MRI to tell me my truth, just as
I don’t need someone to say koya is in danger. Black trees on every
Oregon hillside on the way to anywhere—
Fire so hot the soil dies. (How can we watch as soil dies?)
We teach our children to place tiny seeds in the ground. To wonder
at beginnings. Love vulnerability. My daughter says, pick another word.
But I want to be soft. My neurologist says, you’re one tough mother,
as if it were a compliment to ignore pain, signs that I have been sick
for years but dismissed my body, tired and aflame.
October again. I sink down. Rest on koya. I don’t want to be strong.
I think interdependent. But it is truer to say needy. We must bend
and breathe. Think, forgive. Then listen.
