On Ankles

Essay 11

An odd feeling when you’re no longer afraid of what you used to be afraid of. A dent in the soul remains. You probe it, like tongue the teeth, searching, dubious. Nothing.

I only try things gently or with full force, there is no in between. I wake up late, I wait and wait, or I stay up all night and do all. I used to struggle with what I felt around my ankles, strong and holding me down. Some hands won’t lift you up; you won’t stop wrestling for the sky.

On New Year’s Day I fought again and realised I was aerobicking air. I touched my ankles and there was absolutely nothing there - a dent, sure, but the grips gone. So I stopped kicking lest I kick myself, and stood up and walked on.