i twist the gold ring around my 

little finger, given to me by my 

mother. an heirloom rose, soft 

metal that bends with my grip, 

sharing my movements and 

molding to my fingerprint. 

i can’t feel it slide along the skin of 

my pinkie: it numbs to the gesture. 

i touch it to my lips, caught beneath 

my teeth, and the same unfeeling 

meets my fingertips. the deadening 

creeps up the length of my hands, 

wrists, forearms. it spreads from my 

tongue, to my lips, nose, cheeks. 

but another family inheritance: 

a splitting pain that worsens when  

i lower my gaze in humility to some  

higher power, instilled through fear 

by my mother, that takes no pity on 

me. microscopic cracks form along 

my skull like lightning. white, hot 

flashes etch themselves as if a web 

of flames is woven atop my head. 

the blinding ache behind my eyes,  

in my temples, and around my ears  

settles also in my stomach - or  

rather unsettles it, hollows it, flips it  

into a painstaking nausea. 

i am heaved back into the old oak 

rocking chair, another gift from 

my mother, upholstered with 

sailboats swaying in bays my 

body, or balance, will never know. 

my arms lie limp on the sides of 

the glider, my eyes glancing wildly 

about the room, searching for a 

memory of a jerk of muscle, a 

strain of tissue, anything to give 

reason for the betrayal of my nerve 

endings. it is not the retention of 

such an event that surges from my 

brain, but that of one last gift from 

my mother. 

you will not bear your own children, 

she said, but wisdom will be born 

of you, as Athena from Zeus, and 

you will know, like me, she warned, 

a body that hardens you.