a language not learned

​

three months, they call it,
like an anniversary you don’t buy flowers for,
like time can be softened
by giving it a cute name.
my three month-versary…
ninety days of learning
how to live with a new line
drawn through my head.

i didn’t cry for the zipper of my scalp,
for the bright, clean violence of that room
where everyone spoke in calm voices
as if calm could stitch the sky back together.

i never asked why me.
i never made the ceiling listen
to my list of grievances.
i learned the choreography:
smile at nurses, thank the surgeon,
swallow pills like small apologies.

i practiced being brave
the way you practice a language
you can’t afford to mispronounce.

i said i’m fine
and meant: i’m still here,
which felt like enough.

i wore my incision like a quiet seam,
kept my storms indoors,
laughed at the right moments,
signed the forms,
went home
and tried to fold myself back
into the shape of ordinary.

in the circle of plastic chairs
with the coffee that tastes like waiting,
people spoke in softened light…
not about the screws in the skull,
not about the swelling,
but about hands.

about somebody sleeping upright
in the vinyl recliner that squeaks
each time love shifts its weight.
about calendars torn open,
bosses negotiated with,
work turned into voicemail,
time offered up like a warm blanket.

they said we took turns.
they said i didn’t leave.
they said i learned the names
of every hallway.
and i nodded,
because i know how to nod.
because nodding is what you do
when you’ve decided
you will not be a problem.

but inside me
something unlatched.
not anger, exactly…
more like the moment a glass finally admits
it was always cracked,
and the smallest tap
is enough.

i thought of my own hospital hours:
the beeping, the fluorescent noon,
the way pain makes time
a slow, stubborn animal.

i thought of footsteps that came
and footsteps that didn’t.
of texts that arrived like receipts…
how long will this take?
i’ve got a call.
can you hurry?

i can’t blame a person
for wanting to keep the world moving.
i told myself that…
over and over…
like a prayer you say
until it stops sounding like disbelief.

he was juggling.
he was busy.
he was important.
he was tired.

i was opened like a book
and expected to close
without a bookmark.
and still…
i didn’t complain.

i learned to be the kind of miracle
that doesn’t ask for witnesses.
but today, listening to their stories,
i felt the empty chair beside me
fill with its own heavy presence.
i felt how much silence can weigh
when it has your name on it.

and one tear…
a single, disloyal tear…
rolled down my left cheek,
quiet as a confession,
as if i could keep it private
by making it small.

but the silence in my life
was stunning.
a bright, ringing hush
that made the room feel louder,
that made my own breathing
sound like someone else’s.

the room blurred.
my throat did that thing
where it tries to become a locked door.
my hands betrayed me,
trembling like they’d been holding
something too big
for too long.

i looked at my reflection,
at the faint map on my head,
the careful line of survival,
and something in me whispered…

not why me,
never that.

just:
i didn’t know i was allowed
to want someone
to stay.

so i cried…
not for the surgery,
not for the scar,
not for the hard math of recovery…

but for the small, human ache
of realizing
i have been brave
in a language
the most important person in my life
never learned to speak with me.

​

© Sreedhari Desai