Shapes in the fog

The other week, my nephew asked me, How old are you?

I said, 27. But sometimes I feel like I’m 80. How old are you?

He said, Five. But sometimes I feel like I’m six.

I turned 28 on Wednesday. This has been such a strange year. Most of it is blurry and foggy, but some memories are very clear:

A deep gray sky in early Autumn and I’m standing with a baby on my hip beneath a tree letting go of all its yellow leaves. My eyes on the baby. The baby’s eyes on a cluster of leaves quivering on their branches before drifting down in the breeze and dotting the pale green lawn with bright yellow blotches.

Sitting with my nephew on the front porch as he eats a lime green popsicle and waits for the church bells to begin ringing from across the street. His feet perched on the edge of the cement steps, green droplets rolling down his knuckles and dripping to the grass. Here they come, here they come, he says, Listen.

A baby asleep against my shoulder and my ear to the phone listening to my sister cry, listening to my sister say, I can’t do this anymore. The baby drooling onto my shoulder, turning the fabric of my shirt beneath her little cheek a shade of dark blue. My ear pressed to the phone. My sister’s voice on the other end saying, I can’t do this anymore. And then my own voice--low and quiet so as to not wake the baby, but loud enough to pull her back from the ledge--saying, But you can. You can.

Going on a very long walk through the neighborhoods. Feeling nothing. And then, all at once, feeling everything. The panicked fear that comes with the sudden realization that I am about to collapse. My arms heavy and useless, my legs numb and tingling. My heart beating in such a strange way, like an injured bird flapping broken wings: desperate and uneven. The cement sidewalk pulsing beneath my feet and my head telling me to shut up and walk. Just shut up and walk. And so I walk.

Holding the hands of my niece and nephew as we walk in the rain to my car. A phone pressed against my ear, held in place by my shoulder. My brother-in-law’s voice on the other end crying. My brother-in-law saying, Why does everyone think I can do this? I can’t do this. My hand letting go of my nephew’s little hand. My hand pulling open the car door. My hair soaked with rain water. The phone pressed to my ear. My hands buckling my nephew’s seatbelt. The shirt on my back soaked in rainwater. The pavement beneath my feet slick and wet. My brother-in-law crying on the phone. His voice saying, Why does everyone think I can do this? And then my own voice—low enough so as not to alarm the kids, but loud enough to pull him back from the ledge—saying, Because you can. You can.

These are the clear memories, but everything else seems to be swathed in a fuzzy haze. Like shapes in the fog:

My sister runs her hand down my back and gasps when she feels my spine. Bones are not soft, bones are rigid. Bones hurt. Her hand brushes across my spine and she says my name in a way that says so much more.

Someone telling me that I had better quit whatever diet I’m on because it’s making me disappear. My friend bringing me flowers for my birthday. Snow falling on the windshield glass as I drive around the streets listening to Leonard Cohen sing Famous Blue Raincoat on an endless loop. A strange bird fluttering inside my chest. Someone saying my name. Someone telling me, You never laugh anymore. And you’re always alone.

My feet walking across frozen ground, the cold wind chomping on my bones. Someone saying to me, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat. Not once.

The palm of my hand resting on my niece’s forehead as I check her fever. Rocking a baby to sleep in the afternoons, against a backdrop of thunderstorms and raindrops splashing on windows. My grandmother’s cheek against my cheek, her skin soft and dry like flour. Someone saying my name.

Everything falling apart. My mother worrying about my heart that always beats too fast or too slow. A strange bird inside my chest, flapping broken wings. Everything coming back together again, only splintered this time, balancing on shaky ground. Someone saying my name.

And all of this mixed in with fireworks on the 4th of July; the smell of barbeque grills at summer carnivals; twinkling lights edging the frames of houses for Christmas; parades rolling down Main Street, floats painstakingly decorated with thousands of paper flowers; snowflakes sparkling against porch lights; a flock of birds swooping across the pink and orange clouds of a sunrise.

This was my year. Everything somewhat blurry and disconnected. But real, nonetheless.

This was my year and this is my life: shapes emerging from the fog. A strange bird inside my chest.

And then someone says my name.