Jacob Lawrence, Wounded Man (1968)

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December 18, 2004:

Rain. The back stairs are slick. Careful, careful. Heels down, toes down, each foot balanced.

Arms of laundry. Reach for the hook to prop the door.

The left foot slips. For a moment time stops and it's like a cartoon, feet peddling fast-as-blur seeking grip, while body and laundry go horizontal in mid-air awaiting gravity, the inevitable.

Look down. Left leg, bottom leg, angled against green-painted concrete, foot pointing right unnaturally. Thinking, In a few seconds this is really gonna hurt.

It does. Yell. Nobody hears.

Now what?

Ginger, ginger. Stand. Feel. Is it broken? No, but it's not happy.

Stubborn: hop to the laundry room, complete the errand. I'm not getting injured for no purpose. Stand shaking over the sink, adrenaline, panting. Stubborn: I'm not going to throw up.

Hop grimacing to the house. Hop through the kitchen, sit on the couch, wait for your friend. She'll know what to do.

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