Thursday, January 22, 2009

Sick

My bellybutton is sick. (So I've been told.)

I'm the doctor, Mama! Your doctor is here to make you all better.

I'm lying on the outer edge of the couch; she's curled up in the choicest spot of comfy and cushiony. I'm a balancing act. But I must hold still: Doctor's Orders.

She has my sweater pulled up so she can conduct her examination. Her baby doll bottle is her otoscope. Her baby doll sippy cup is her bellybutton depressor. One is filled with water, I'm told; the other, with magic medicine.

I'm a good patient; I hold still. She examines and I doze. There's no reason to be any more tired today than any other day, but in this life, when am I not tired? Her actions are sure, but gentle. A measurement here, a drop of magic medicine there. She traces circles around my navel with her bottle tip. I'm getting tattooed. My stomach is a grassy plane and she builds a Stonehenge for the lint people. Her touch is rhythmic and delicate. She's a shaman on the invisible ailments of my first scar. Until she informed me, I hadn't even known I was ill. But all the same, I feel healed under her ministrations. Pin It