It wasn't an illness as much as it was a grouping of blackbirds
on a telephone wire, or at least that's what the doctor said. She
asked me to stick my tongue out farther. She said, this is a pale
tongue, indicating your poor diet. She asked me what I had
been feeding myself, if I ate crows, etc. I told her about the
handful of almonds, the coffee. She asked me to lift up my
arms. Like this? I asked. No, she said. More like wings. I made
my arms into wings. Also, I scratched at my scalp. She
explained this was a consequence of being around children too
much and too often. They are dirty, she said. But I love my
children, I told her. I am not here to talk about love, she said.
While my arms were out it occurred to me that I missed the
physical world, that if I were to rid myself of anything, I did
not want to drag it and drop it into some "pretend" trash can, I
wanted to burn it, or shred it, or fashion it into huge paper
wings, hurl it off a very high building, and see if it could fly.
You can put your arms down, the doctor said. But I couldn't. I
could only lower them a tiny bit, then lift, then lower, and lift
and lower. In this way, I experienced flight for the first time. I
found my kin along the telephone wire. From my throat, I
released one final call, but the doctor, having perhaps been
distracted by her own longings, had already dismissed herself
from our virtual appointment.