Stroke

She was swaddled in a tightly woven cocoon, spun with threads that pulsed from spasm to rigidity.

Hanging on by the thinnest filament, she was enveloped in darkness while the hum of life was dulled by a heavy cloak of paralysis.

Unable to move at will, her body existed in a state of suspended animation, tethered by an overwhelming tug.

A prisoner in repose, she dreamed of what once was and fantasized of what was not to be.

Blinding rage ebbed and flowed as her mind played tricks on her, and her soul searched for an escape.

After months and months, when it finally felt safe, she pushed through and slowly spread her wings into the pain.

She watched as if a detached observer of her own body as one wing emerged badly damaged.

Tears began to flow, landing among the deep, vibrant hues. They glistened on the overlapping pieces that defined her.

Others drifted and fluttered above her, unable to look past her confused movements, transfixed by her disability.

She was extraordinary, so delicate and yet so resilient, so rare, and so misunderstood.

Confused and scared, her cocoon was repaired and readied as she quickly retreated, spinning a wrap to muffle her screams.

She rested as she prayed that the next time she emerged others could accept her.

More importantly, she prayed that she could once again accept herself.

Kimberly S. Voss

(It has been 9 months today since my oldest daughter’s most recent stroke. All these years, through all her challenges, she has always been the consummate teacher. I am trying to be a good student.)

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