Itch

Shelly’s skin itched something fierce. The insistent irritation invaded her thoughts and tore her mind from her task. Her skin had developed tiny needle pitched voices that pierced her brain directly, demanding attention. Shelly’s finger muscles began to rebel her brain’s command to remain at ease and began to twitch. She knew this was a clear sign her fingers and the voices were winning.
Telling herself that she was just providing minor relief, Shelly’s hand drifted to her forearm. Blessed calm blanketed her at the first light scratch. The voices stilled and everything inside her focused on that light touch scrapping over her skin. Nothing had ever felt better against her body; no silk could be have been more luxurious. For a few minutes, she lived in a world of perfect; perfect sensations, perfect sounds, perfect calm.

Then, her fingers became a bit heavier and the scratching became a bit more intense. The change was almost imperceptible and Shelly didn’t even register the shift at the beginning. As her fingers continued to move, she slowly became of their weight and the shape of their nails moving into her skin. She started to become alarmed when she felt the bite sinking into her arm deeper than she had intended but she couldn’t stop her scratching. She watched as they continued to dig and scratch at the irritated skin that had been screaming at her moments earlier. And then, as slowly as she had become aware of the increasing intensity of her scratching, she became aware of prickles riding the rest of her skin.
Her thigh wanted attention so badly it started twitching as if it were trying to make the journey to her hand instead of waiting for the hand to come to it. Her back flinched in anger when its itch was ignored. Her ankle begged her reach down and treat it to the same rough treatment her arm had received. Shelly’s hands flashed over her skin, scratching and tearing into each itch. They lighted like butterflies and dug in like plows, never quite quick enough to sooth one spot before the next bellowed for attention.

Shelly’s body rocked with the violence, moving and arching under the nails that provided both a salve to the itch and a slight pain with the pressure. As her hands answered the prayers of other parts of her body, the greed slowly began to be quenched. Her back no longer pitched and heaved seeking attention. Her thigh quieted down and lay content along her bone. Her hands still moved to answer smaller requests but instead of violent sweeps they were now hiccups. Shelly became quiet stillness broken by a small jerky motion that lapsed back into stillness.

Gathering her body around her, Shelly stood and moved softly toward the bathroom. Perhaps a glass of water was in order. Perhaps she just wanted to wash her hands because they felt as if they were coated. She wasn’t quite sure why she moved. She just knew the storm was over and that she could now return to what she had been doing a few moments ago. She leaned in and picked up the glass. Her eyes drifted up with the glass, she met her eyes in the mirror and froze.

Her skin. It was gone. But it was still there. She blinked and looked down at her hands. The fingertips were crusty with sloughed off skin; cells packed the recesses of her nails. Beneath this grime she saw new skin covering her palms. Her forearms blinked back at her in the healthy pink hue that appears after the last of a scab has fallen away. Shelly turned on the water and washed the last evidence of the old layers away from her hands. Drying them, she noted the sensitivity that hadn’t been there before. She ran her hands over her stomach, feeling the freshly exposed nerve endings flicker uncertainly, new to the feeling of touch. Her calves were tender to contact. The newness of her skin was smooth, baby like, but the muscles beneath the new covering remained as firm as they had been earlier.

Shelly stepped back from the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. Before her was a new woman, fresh, unmarred, and vibrant. Her skin shone with eagerness and freshness. Yet, she wasn’t new. She felt the years of experience and hard work supporting this new sheath. She would still be able to run as fast; she would still be able to lift as much; she would still remember everything the years had taught her. Those lessons ran deep and clear to the bone. But now, it seemed, she had a new way to sense the world around her. Here, coating her body, were new sensations to replace the spots that had been dead. There would be new touches and new scratches. But for now it was just new. Shelly looked over this new suit calmly. She breathed in slowly and grinned, accepting the gift. She was prepared and eager to start again.

Accepting a Gift

When we lose something infinitely important to us we splinter apart. We burst apart, pieces of us fleeing in shards, flying to get away from us. In that split second, our perception of time is slowed and we watch the explosion drive parts of us from us, frozen in our shock and helplessness. There is no stopping this flight. Some of our pieces will return. Many will be damaged but will heal with time. These pieces will snuggle back into their home and our lives will appear normal. But the pieces that don’t return will leave a vacancy.

Now is the time to remember- loss is not crippling. No doubt that we will forget that we lost something and reach for what was once there. Our hands will grasp the empty air, our feet will fall through the space, leaving us gasping in fear until we find floor - now at a much different level than it was before. That sudden vacant space is not empty - merely waiting.

Perhaps we chose to leave it empty, a vacant reminder of what we’ve lost. It can become a memorial of void, adding nothing to our lives - merely a vacancy we carry throughout our days. A space that we skirt with averted eyes, hoping if we stop interacting with it, the emptiness will slowly fade.

Or, perhaps, we choose to search for the closest replica of what we lost. We can sift through materials, assemble approximations, paint surfaces to mimic the old parts. Carefully, oh so deliberately, we can try to rebuild a hollow reincarnation of what we had before, desperately hoping that this trickery will lead us back to peace.

But, maybe there is a third possibility. Maybe we can be strong enough to stop and watch the space. Perhaps we can stare into and allow ourselves to remember what was once there, revisit the pain, and let that go. Perhaps if we stand there long enough, we might begin to see the space as receptive instead of empty - a new space for us to create within, tempting us instead of tormenting us. Where we once felt loss, we can feel a calling, a luring of the creative- an urge to redefine what will occupy that space. We can allow ourselves to be seduced into the space and then we can begin again, molding and creating anew. Giddy, we can start shaping our ideas of what should replace it.

Throwing out restraints, we may fill the space with something that resembles the lost item very little. In redefining and shaping our view of the vacancy, we can create something extraordinary to take it’s previous occupant’s place. We can create something that feels softer and warmer; something that fits our souls closer; something that doesn’t chafe quite so much; something that is stronger and unexpected.

Perhaps, if we abandon restraints - we can create wings where we had legs.