By Peggy Shumaker
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Extra resources for Just Breathe Normally (American Lives)
Sample text
Back then, he slurped risengrynsgrøt, spread on his lefse smør so thick his teeth left tracks. Back then, he chased us with limburger. Back then, he scoured us with whiskery kisses. Back then, we’d polka on top of his stocking feet, champagne bubbles rising. Back then, his boo-di-oooh-di-ooooh-di deepened any dark, shook screams out of us. Back then, Norway stuck in his throat. Over mugs of stout black coffee sucked through lump sugar, his eyes, bright blue, traveled back. Back then, the littlest bukken bruse always made it over the bridge, made it past the hungry trollet to graze on sweet grass in high seter.
Nobody sings zippedy-do-dah with her feet in stirrups, even stirrups cozied up in oven mitts. She warms the speculum, my good doctor, warns me before each touch. And still I jump a little, push back from the edge a little, close my eyes to interrogation, no parts private under probing lights. I try to see this as routine. Spritz fixes cells swabbed from my cervix onto glass slides, their testimonies invisible to the naked eye. One gloved hand inside she slides the warm other skin to skin over my abdomen.
She was laughing, leaning back to grab her mug of strong black Folger’s. A wayward fold snagged her wrist, fed her fingers, hand, forearm between hard rollers. Her face bleached out. Eyes flush with rinse water, she reached and reached — the release just inches too far. Far away, the bones in her arm spread. Exiled from this body, she watched her hem unravel. Beyond her yet, this mending. 32 Beaded Belt, Mt. Rushmore Volkswagen packed tight as a tick on a boxer’s dog’s flop ear, we set out toward the Black Hills, then Rocklake, North Dakota, the mythical place my mother was born, and where she lived in the time before time began.