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Sent home from the hospital "Not time yet"

Came back "Still not time"

The time is now, I pant small hard breaths, simultaneously pretending nothing is happening, my arm is only leashed to a machine a little, not much, flip pages of a Kerouac book, long sentences tangle and trip me

I wander, lost

White McDonalds bag rustles, greasy outdoor smell circles my shrunken world, a tiny knot of pain and fear that can't be unlaced

"You're not trying," the male doctor says sternly. Hours, days pass in hospital's eternal twilight

She is here

Upside down she doesn't cry, miniature waterlogged fingers. They take her away.

She's 12 and we run away, begin again

Now when we put our hands together her fingertips extend past mine. When she stands on my feet, we tip over

I call her name softly, mornings, while the green and pink Hello Kitty alarm clock shrills, unheard. Only my voice can bring her back. She doesn't come willingly.

We buy Converse shoes, creamsicle orange, but the new school doesn't fit

Being born many times keeps you young, I tell her, and she rolls her eyes

Learn more about this author, Andrea Kreidler.
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