by Mikki Aronoff

Food jumps out of your throat like a frog leaping out of a pond. You try to be careful swallowing, but sometimes your gullet has a mind of its own. 

You tire of explaining to friends why you won’t eat out with them. Sometimes you chance it, but normally you change the subject. You might ramble on about the burden of rearing triplets, having to tie six bouncing baby shoes every morning. The humiliation of having to use mnemonics when it comes to figuring out who’s who. Each time. This confounds your friends—they know you’re childless, so they shrug, go on without you.

In the hospital basement, they take pictures of you choking down chalky white gunk. They tilt their heads and sadden their eyes when they inform you that you have dysmotility, that your esophagus is tortuous. You regurgitate this word, choose your own: wonky. They offer strategies (tiny bites, chew well, frequent sips of water), gift you something to shake your fist at: the radiation you had for your thyroid cancer.

***

You sit with a coffee and your cat, paw through your carved, wooden, keepsake box. “Mementos not mori” you call them. You finger snippets of silver balloons that were waiting for you your last day of radiation, kiss glittery hearts scissored from get well cards, feel the peel and coil of birch bark cocooning your all-clear report.

You rail against the precariousness of bodies but decide to forgive yours in particular. It’s served you pretty well for a long, long while.

Winter is coming. Each year about this time as the solstice nears, you visit the card reader across town. A skeleton is foretold. The good news: worms will benefit. Later, your skull will rest in the palms of a curious child. Polliwogs will morph into frogs. And flowers will grow for rabbits to eat.

You take a frosty carton from the freezer, scrape a chair up to your kitchen table, rest a while. The melt feels smooth sliding down your throat.