By Melissa Witcher
2011. The Day My Articular Cartilage Died (aka Car Hits Pedestrian)
When we met, I was in the crosswalk and she was looking at her cell phone; I never even saw her face. The car connected without a sound. My feet twisted but didn’t break. I didn’t smell the asphalt from the skid marks but my skin felt the burn. Bystanders called the ambulance and insisted that she cried. I didn’t turn my neck to see. I’m certain she was to blame; I looked both ways. Result: my right ankle cracks like knuckles under pressure. Every day I can’t run or jump, which is every day, she winks from my rearview.
2013. The Day Religious Persuasion Stopped Persuading (aka An Atheist is Born)
Here’s the timeline: god meant nothing to me, someone insisted that there was a He, I believed, and then, one Sunday, I went back to the beginning. That simple. There I was, knees chapped from wooden pews, hands cracked from prayer, stomach rumbling for the body of Christ, when a priest started complaining about “the whores next door”. I’d heard it before but that day the words pierced my throat, perforated my intestine, and relieved me of my faith. Warriors of Christ still try to give me papercuts with righteous pamphlets but I feel no sting as I walk away.
2020. The Day the Second Child Resurrected (aka Sibling Woes)
I had a brother and then I didn’t, not because he died but he was dead to me. Our Dad’s to blame; he taught us only how to butt heads with cruel jabs and hard shoves. He was not a wise man but a father’s words have a way of sticking. When I was sixteen, I threw my brother to the ground. At twenty-three, he returned the favor. We exchanged aggressions until I decided he was dead. Now a therapist, he’s got practice with making amends. We smile without showing teeth and our palms are sweaty when we hold hands.
2023. The Day the Leaf Fell (aka Suicide)
Two fallen leaves chase after each other, egged on by wind and regret. I’m talking to my dad, many years dead, when I see the race. Next door, a straight-haired woman hands money to a man with a garbage bag, making him promise not to buy drugs. My dad said no to drugs; he preferred liquor bottles hidden in cupboards. It took sixty years to find the bottom of them all. Mostly, I complained. Later, I averted my gaze and ignored the clink of glass. Now, I reach for the ghost and say, did you see the way they tumbled?
2019. The Day the Other Woman Became Me (aka The Slut)
When I was a kid, my mom called me volcano and my dad said face, both exasperated by my intensity. Neither prepared me for future accusations of destroying a marriage with evil magic. I won’t rob a senior citizen but I’ll steal your husband, they say. This much is true: I ate lunch, handed his partner the plate to wash, and days later spritzed myself with a Spanish perfume famous for undertones of amber. It wasn’t a master plan; I’m guilty of a timeline overlap, not an attack. The righteous anger that sought to burn me sizzled but didn’t flame.
2019 & 2024. Inadequate Meaningful Connections (aka Relationships End)
Fifteen years ago, a Dutch sociologist found that friendships come and go; we lose about 70% every seven years. Before the husband I have now, I had another one. Just one. We made it eight years but nearly all that time was unnecessary. I also kept a best friend for twenty-seven years, two decades too long. I held on out of fear, well aware that there’s a loneliness epidemic. Would I die and regret not having more beloved? I opted for regret rather than hanging on and am relieved that I felt lonelier with them than I ever have alone.
2014 to 2024. What Was One Becomes Two and Then None (aka Motherhood)
The pieces of my daughter used to fit perfectly. In the palm of my hand and crook of my elbow. The soles of her feet cradled the curves of my cheeks. All of her came from me. Returned to me. And then, years in the making, each angle and bone became her own. She came home with a head infested with lice; the parasite clung so effortlessly. Far better than me. When was the last time I reached for my mother? That time her clavicle nearly sliced me in two? Maybe. I could’ve anticipated the inheritance of a disjointed embrace.
2024. No Longer do I Dwell on Yesterday (aka The Sunrise I Can See is Today)
Hands curled into fists, quick, like a door slammed shut by a gust of wind. Not a sign of power, but of pain. With a twitch of the lips, I bore the regret of hard U-turns and burned bridges. Each event accompanied by rubbing the ashes of what remained between the ridged tips of my fingers. Not quite a grimace, just a backward glance. Was I right, was I wrong? Am I to blame? Each fleck of gray a singular failure provoked by yet another fire. Or perhaps the flames are just one. Me. And in the blaze I’m free.
¹Note. This unique set of collectible life experiences does not contemplate: the onset of OCD, an unfriendly return to roots, an assault, the book that no one bought, and more. The assiduous collector is aware that life extends beyond the limits of what’s on display.
About the Author:
Melissa Witcher (she/ela) is a left-handed taurus and card-carrying cat person. She was born in Brazil, raised in the U.S. and has lived in São Paulo since 2011. Her rejections outnumber her acceptances but her writing can be found in the wild & wonderful literary hinterlands. She muses at atawdrymind.substack.com