Emerging Voices

The Push

By Elisabeth Meyer

You saw the little jar in which I saved
the stitches: soft and blue; like chiggers who
fell asleep, all in a bunch; every bit
a marvel, holding strong their weight against
the button and the buckeye. But you grow
impatient, as do I; back then the floors
were wood; in better days it meant I was
a figure skater. I was sad but clean,
as lucky children are. To tell you straight:
cinnamon hot-tots in my hand, my blue
socks sailed me down the wooden stairs. I was
just eight; no husband pushed me. But it was
the same invisible trickster. Our backs
turned away, he comes to give us our shove:
the poisoned cookie they warned us about,
but not enough. I yowled, the alley cat who shakes
still at the stick. My sister thudded down
the hall, a quickening drum of sudden
love. What? she said a dozen times. I moved
my hair. She saw the wound that tells us we
are women; tooth-fairy trading her dime
for something else beneath the pillow. For
a moment she held my hand against it.