My mother hobbles into the kitchen. Her gait is a wide, see-sawing lurch, reminiscent of my children as toddlers who barreled headlong into everything. I watch helplessly, certain this is the moment she crashes into a table or snags the edge of a rug and hits the ground. . This morning, her flannel nightgown is crusted with blood.
Link: MUSCLE MEMORY: Essay by Claudia Hinz
via booksbywomen.org
