We’ll do this before I leave his Scotch-soaked
life, we decide. You can love him and still
leave him, my therapist says. He stopped me
from slitting my neck, I cry. And now we’re
hiking the steep trail out. He shares his water
with me. I ask, You know why they call this
the Grand Canyon? He says, Because it’s grand,
and we giggle. My heels are blistered, back
cramped, face and chest mottled with heat rash.
My steel will spurs legs with a chant learned at six,
I think I can, I think I can. I think—
Next switchback, the voice is Mom’s. You can’t. Don’t
wear yourself out. Don’t make yourself sick.
A raven’s gurgling croaks fill the canyon.
My world history teacher mocks me for my
absence, Ohh, you were ti-i-i-red. I’m so-o-o-o sorry.
Classmates titter. A voice interrupts them
from the trail—a girl laughs and whistles up
the canyon, coming closer and closer
until, grinning, she hops past on one leg,
the other a stump boosting me up
over the rim. My legs do not move right.
I stumble to my car. We go for steak.
I propel myself to food by bouncing
from one wall to the other. I’m laughing,
hard. A woman grabs her child. Get away
from her. She’s drunk. I’m not, I want to say,
and I want to slide to the floor. I walk
tall and straight—very, very slowly now—
across the dining room. I peck at my
daiquiri ice sorbet, he hugs me, tight,
turns and walks out the carved oak doors.
