I speak to my body

 Many years ago, when I lived in Bolivia, I developed a sore on the bottom of my left foot—a nasty place in case one wants to walk. And I did. The doctor decided I needed an operation to remove the growth. (Now I know that there are less drastic solutions for this condition.) So, he operated. Then he sent me home with instructions to rest, with my foot elevated.

It was the middle of a school term, but I complied. (Now I know that today a doctor would have me up and walking an hour after the operation.) 

Actually, I was glad for a little time off to lay around and read novels. Except for the pain.

My foot hurt. So, I wrote it a letter. Here’s my letter:

Letter To My Left Foot 

Oh appendage, end of leg, end of body, connection to the world,

Why do you protest?
Have I not treated you well?
Have I ignored you?
Well, I'm not ignoring you now!
You are constantly on my mind these days, left foot.
I lay here with you high in the air, and I think of you.
I get up to go to the bathroom and all my focus dips down to where you meet the floor.
Eating, sleeping, reading my novel, you are on my mind.
I hope you can find satisfaction in this.
I hope this cools your heat, calms your ire, stifles your screams.

Oh foot, left foot, please accept my profound apologies for having ignored you, belittled you, stuffed you into shoes, exposed you to dirt and grime, and--more times than I can calculate--stepped on you.

And now--hear my confession--I must tell you in all honesty that I probably will continue to do all of the above, once you stop screaming.

In spite of that, please consider being nice to me again.

Whatever you decide, we're stuck with each other, connected for life.
A treaty, left foot?
Let's try harder to get along, OK?

With warm regards,
The rest of your body.

I was just thinking this morning that at this time of life I could write letters to lots of body parts. I’m not sure they would read my letters. It probably wouldn’t make any difference.

Take my hands, for example. My hands used to be so soft and well-formed. Not only that, they could open tough lids without outside help. Strong. My hands were a source of pride. 

Now I think—how silly. 

Hal complemented me yesterday. “You have beautiful hands, Nancy,” he said. I’m afraid I made some cynical remark in reply. Bad me. Later I said, “Woops. Sorry. I accept your complement.”

Actually, my hands are much more interesting now than when I was young and vain. The lines go in so many directions. The spots are not symmetrical but I like abstract art. The nails are ridged, but the ridges are straight and orderly, in contrast to the spots. The knobby knuckles provide a geography of mountains and valleys. And the bruise marks are a lovely color of purple. 

I don’t think I’ll write a letter to my hands. Instead, I will talk to them. Here’s what I’ll say:

Thank you, hands, for almost 80 years of service. I can’t believe how many poems and stories you’ve written. You’re so creative. Years ago, you held hands with a young man as I promised to be faithful. You wore that beautiful ring for five years, until you grew skinny and it fell off in Lake Titicaca. Not your fault. We replaced it, not wanting your finger to feel naked.

You burped my babies, cooked spaghetti, washed my dishes, gripped the steering wheel as I drove to the market, buttoned my buttons, threw balls, cross-stitched flowers, and turned the pages on some wonderful books. I could go on and on.

I probably should have worn gloves when I did the dishes. I probably should have spoiled you more with exotic lotions. A manicure or two might have been nice. But you’ve been faithful anyway.

And now you’re so interesting, a map of lines and spots that tell the story of a lifetime of adventures, surprises, trials, and blessings. 

So, thank you. I promise to stop complaining about those interesting spots.

Now, which body part should I address next?