In another life,
I’d be the one the other side of the curtain.
Blue scrubs, badge clipped on,
Strong enough to lift someone out of pain,
Instead of drowning in it myself.
 
Maybe id be a nurse. Or a paramedic
Shouting over sirens with adrenaline in my chest
Or a doctor, calm and clever,
The kind that makes people feel safe,
The one that makes a difference
 
Not this.
Not 24 and shattered,
Living like I’m 84,
Every joint and nerve staging a protest i never signed up for
 
I’d be working shifts, not managing symptoms
Filling out charts, not pip forms,
I’d be saving lives, not just trying to keep mine bearable.
 
And maybe, just maybe
I’d make my parents proud in the way i always imagined,
Not for being strong though the pain,
But for becoming someone that i always dreamed of being,
For being something that mattered,
Not just surviving something i never asked for.
 
And id be proud too,
Not just for coping,
Not for just getting through the day,
But for being someone,
Doing something,
making a real difference
 
In that life id have a purpose,
Not just prescriptions,
And a body that carries me,
Instead of one i have to carry,
 
In another life…
I would have made an amazing nurse,
I would’ve changed lives,
I would’ve made the difference in the world I always wanted to
 
In another life…
I would be really living, not just surviving each day.

Listen carefully to these words.
 
The Big Bad Wolf to Little Red Riding Hood.   Mama,
Papa, and Little Bear to Goldilocks.  Puss in Boots to
his young master.  Several fairy tales have animals talk
like actors in a Shakespeare play, reciting their lines.
Disabled people are understudies with stage fright, frozen
on stage.  The animals laugh at them, and they become
silent and still.  The damaged ones just watch the
performance as if from a distant alien world.
 
A different fairy tale, without words, just shadows
and sorrow. Aphasia stole their cracked brain, and threw
it down into a deep, cold, wet and dark well.  Broken
switches, misfired rifles, the lone soldier.   A long battle
ahead, they must overcome multiple obstacles.  Many
changes lead to a new beginning, but hard work will
set them free.  Through the thick tree canopy, the sun peaks.
 
A happy fairy tale ending is within reach.

About the author: 
Rochelle M. Anderson lives in Minnesota, USA.   She is an attorney who had a severe stroke in 2007 and almost died.   She is still disabled with difficulty walking, and because of aphasia struggles with reading and writing.   Ms. Anderson has been published in four chapbooks, and several online poetry journals.  Writing poetry has helped her recover, and dictation fuels her words.

 Your voice was an iced fruit apple slice to us, Shared while seated outside every summer, Though you never travelled in any season. Your laugh was a comedy catchphrase.
You were the pink Marks & Spencer meringue nests, Crystal-cut glasses of cherryade, and amethyst birthstones on bracelets. You were the bag, laden with photographs, postcards, Prayers, and magazine tips for houses.
The school I confided in you about, And the certificate I earned from there— You were the imagining of it framed on hospital walls.
You were the marble-handled, soft-bristled hairbrush, The Revlon make-up, the hot drinks before bedtime, Silky blouses, blazers, and slippers.
You were the grandma we prayed for a miracle for, As we willed you to get well.
Now you are the neat, grassy path I know by heart And tread with utmost care; The earrings of your sister we must arrange to repair, The door ajar at a certain moment, The good luck wish, the tiniest horseshoe, And rosary beads we last left you with.

​March 5, 2025 06:18

Nothing. No one. Or other pieces of emptiness that wander through my atrophied memory. The big white birds talk among themselves incessantly, even in the middle of the night. The sea was yesterday a blue wall, which I would not have dared to cross for anything in the world. So beautiful. The elders once came from the other side of the horizon to here, and for them it was the end of the world. Pines tortured by the wind surround me, today, it’s blowing from the East, from Central Asia like the people here. An abandoned cathedral, Greek Orthodox and all white, was empty. The path climbed steeply to the top. We passed a cemetery without a cross. A man imitated a bird there, looking perfectly ridiculous. In my dream there was a painting painted thirty-five years ago broken by a stranger. I discovered a piece of it by chance at a friend's place who was indifferent to it. This strange character can't speak English, the others are bandits. In the gallery everyone thought I was rich, it makes him think about Under the Sun of Satan when he looks at them. At night I hear the heavy footsteps of the seagulls above my head, moving and screaming even in the middle of the night. They are insomniacs, winter is coming to an end, it's the season when they talk too much. Something or someone stole two eggs, as white as both my eyes, from a nest placed on a window ledge thirty meters above the ground. So she never came back. Human beings and animals are the same, it's sad or not. It’s the beginning of the fasting for some, the awakening for others, at six o'clock sharp. Life is paradoxical, as the angel Gabriel told me once. I have nothing to say against that, I don't know, nor will I ever know. I could have or should have jumped, no one would have known anything about it. She’s totally aware that suicide is the only way out for him if things keep on going like this. Others have always been afraid of him, rightly so, and vice versa. After madness, nothing will be the same again.
And yet, the blue sea was certainly not a wall for him, but an abyss, in the end.