Once

I'm not sure where this strange little thing comes from? Just a sequence of images that keep popping into my mind. Partly inspired by Angie's post about crutches.

Once there was a woman.

Once there was a woman who had a child. Once.

A child who slipped and twisted out of time.
She left no mark.
Needed no crutch.
Needed nothing.
Except for death.

A child so brief, it was as though she had never been.
Except to the woman. The woman who once was.

She clutched. But there was nothing, only an empty space.
So her hands clutched the air where the child had been.
Once.

A second rate crutch.
And yet she clutched.
Because heaven knows she needed one.
Couldn't manage without one.
The woman who once was.

She clutched so hard that her hands twisted.
Around the crutch that was only a substitute.

Her hands.
That longed to cradle the head, the skull, the brain.
That they had cradled.
Once.

But now they cradled nothing.
Because her gentleness had left her.

Her hands.
They had lost the trick of joint, of synovial fluid, of flexion, of release.
Even in the ease of sleep, they remained.
Watchful, clawed, waiting.
Just in case.
Because you never know.
When things that seemed lost may be returned to you.
And.
If they ever are.
You
had
better
be
quick.

Years passed.

The woman raised her hands to the sky.
Idly.
As if to examine them.
She shook them.
There was something defiant in the rattle of her claws.
But whether they were lifted in triumph or despair?
It
was
very
hard
to
say.