I unroll the wrapping paper across the floor; lay flat against its dull side, bring a pencil to trace the shape of me, staying as still as I can. In the morning, I wake breathless; reach for my sides, count my fingers, wiggle my toes. I fall into a fresh bank of snow in the yard, a muted thud in the packed cold where my arms spill outstretched. I scrunch back to my feet, pray the ground holds my frame, my cookie cutter mold in its palms, so I can look back, measure how tall I stand, count the corners of me—find what limb is claiming phantom. What part of me has gone missing.
Lately, I find myself sitting through the afternoon with a hand to my stomach, as if an old wound is on the mend. I stand bewildered in front of the kitchen sink wondering if I’ve missed a birthday. I scroll through messages searching for anything I’ve overlooked. For the past few weeks, I’ve cycled through the feeling as if I’ve just experienced something new in life, and there’s one person I’ve left out, someone I’m meaning to tell. You know if you’ve broken a bone, booked a trip to Italy, or fallen in love, you fill in the people closest to you. I swear, it’s on the tip of my tongue. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten. The only trouble is, even though I’m happy, there’s nothing new I’m needing to tell. There’s not a single person I’m missing. My shape is frozen in the snow, same as it should be. My hands are coming up empty.
with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
venmo: schuylerpeck