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#QuemPensa é Spiralist: “The First of Four (Broken Wrists)”

#QuemPensa é Spiralist: “The First of Four (Broken Wrists)”

And told me to man up. I was eight years old.

On those first three years

I let my mind project itself outside the window

The protagonists of my fancy danced along the branches

And flew over the crawling emerald bugs.

It sure beat the blank exam across me

Left untouched at the edge of my table

Oh my daydreaming’s negligence

How swiftly you both saved and cursed me.


I was thus made a recluse when the freedom bell rang

But not on that fateful winter afternoon

And even my peers let the weirdo in

On a ballgame of organized violence.


So I should have seen it coming

When in rare possession of the coveted sphere

My now deceased friend swept my feet away

And I kid you not

A second’s fraction turned into a million years of pondering

“Do I cover it?

Do I save my back with my hand?”

I reasoned it was a good bargain.


So I placed my left hand behind my back

Palm against the black ground

And felt the crushing impact of the fall

And the razor sharp pain that washed me over.


I had never felt such overwhelming pain.


My pleading scream and the returning bells in unison

My cry for help dismissed by the others

As they left me behind without a glance

Departing without a care in the world.


I breathed in shocked velocity

Now alone in the yard

As I forced myself up

Still reeling in

And I walked on for help

While fighting off the pain

Only for them to bluster at my carelessness

And send me back to class.


My colleagues laughed thunderously.


Soon after, at the day’s end

My grandfather came by to pick me up

Took a look at the darkening wrist

Said it was but twisted

And told me to man up.


I was eight years old.


As it dusked and the pain cut deeper

And I uncharacteristically barely ate at dinner

My father came by to pick me up

Took a look at the darkening wrist

And told me to man up.


Ah, the apple does not fall far from the tree.

My mother’s genuine worry

Did not prevent me from being sent to bed

With nothing but a thin wall of lint

Holding together the remains of my paralyzed wrist


And it wasn’t until the third sleepless night
That she said “That’s enough, we’re going to the hospital”


And Oh! did my father protest

With every pore of his self-assuring masculinity

That we were making a tempest in a teapot

And that the doctors would either laugh hard

Or dismiss my trouble and send me back home

It was much ado about nothing.


Fifteen minutes into the resented drive

He left us at the doors and went searching for parking

(where he stayed for the following hour)

As we waited at the Emergencies’ corridor

Witness to a grotesque parade of the ailed

And awaiting our turn.


When it came, we went in

And the doctor, eagle-eyed

Laid his frowning gaze upon my purple wrist instantly

And began with the routine questions.


Now, you should have been a fly on the wall that night

To see his incredulous frozen face

When she told him they waited three days to take me there

For they believed it was but a minor injury

And to see her paused expression of faking shock

And hear her mutter “it can’t be”

When the outraged doctor told her it was clearly broken

And scolded her for waiting that long.


The X-Ray soon proved his point

And the lint was replaced by heavy cast

Which I was to bear for a month

While my bones made amends.


And so, upon returning to the car

My father gazed at my arm in contemplation

Asked: “It’s really broken…?”


“Who would have guessed?”

And drove us off.


Cue in the sting.


Partes do Corpo que não são visíveis #2 – Maria Cunha