Ways I Did Not Shatter My Heel
Jumping from a lover’s window.
Although a shattered calcaneus is referred to as the “lover’s fracture” since a lover may jump from great heights while trying to escape the lover’s spouse.
Losing my footing on Mount Whitney and smashing the bony bulb against a ruthless rock.
Although I did boulder in my pre-LA five-week Portland purgatory, where I would climb high enough to start to feel the vertigo, intimate fear, and I’d force myself to let go of the grips and push off with my feet to free fall to the foam crash mat.
Scaling a resolute wooden wall in an athletic obstacle race and falling into last, and broken, place.
Although I signed up for a Spartan Race before the cast was even off my foot, and three months after the cast was removed, still limping and swollen, I ran. And jumped bleacher stairs at Citi Field with my feet tied together, and scaled walls.
Drinking and stumbling, catching my too high heel in the 86th Street subway grate at 4am on a Sunday.
Although once I had surrendered and moved in with Alexis – after leaving the Brooklyn apartment I’d only lived in for three months and moving my collection of photos, cowboy boots I couldn’t fit on my swollen foot, high school art teachers band shirts, and mostly boxes of books to storage – we made mixed drinks in her Grandma’s old familiar kitchen and found reasons to laugh ourselves ugly, screech breathing and wet eyed, while drinking our refreshing inebriating creations we deemed FML’s (fuck my life’s). Sometimes you can’t pay rent, but you can buy a bottle of Beefeater gin and a fancy lime seltzer and garnish with raspberries.
Attacked by a wolf while backpacking, bloodthirsty teeth latching onto my left ankle.
Although Una, a small Boston Terrier, slept next to my casted foot while I stayed with Alexis. One bed, two ladies, and a little protector who curled up next to the unforgiving boot, a healer in a runt’s disguise.