I didn’t know I was a stuntwoman until I woke up broken.
My husband said I’d fallen from a skyscraper, my best dive-bomb
yet. My children kept vigil at my bedside like tiny monks.

I was supplied enough Gatorade to hydrate a rhino. Christmas
came and went, and I reveled in being twined in lights, made to sit
in the center of the living room as if I’d birthed a Macy’s parade.

I started to feel my legs again, my brittleness. My family returned
to ignoring me. They’d whip by me like a ghost. Their worship
freefalling. I threw myself down the stairs on New Year’s Eve. Every step

offered a snap or a bang. The dog ran over to sniff my smashed face
while imaginary saints measured the worth of my pink tender bruises.

Photo by Jan Antonin Kolar on Unsplash