On the last day,
I hit a wall with my fist
and broke my hand.
I had never hit anyone or
anything.
I watched it happen in
slow motion
with play-by-play analysis
running inside my head.
“See what she did there?
Classic fist-to-wall collision.”
Squeaky marker drawing on glass,
arrows, diagrams, and more commentary.
“Drywall crumbled at her feet.
Didn't seem to feel anything, no excessive
bleeding. Penalty, broken hand.”
End of replay.

I wanted to hit the wall again,
but couldn’t.
Thought I’d get at least two good
wall wallops in - until I hit the stud first.
Bad luck. A little to the left and I’d have
been golden for another shot.

Could only sit now and watch my
hand swell, bruise, grow numb -
like the rest of me.
In a daze, I put ice on it,
drove one-handed to the emergency room.
They asked me how it happened.
I shrugged. My friend died
so I hit a wall, I explained.
They slid me into an MRI machine,
placed my hand on a coil for
better imaging.
Only the best for me!
And then I closed my eyes,
sealed in that tube,
not caring if I ever emerged
in a world without you.

© Laura DeHart Young