Portland, Oregon's Cancer Survivorship and Bodywork Zine by Compassion Arts PDX, LLC
She sat cross legged on the side of the road. Her name was Sunrise. Her name tattooed on her left wrist. Said she was an alcoholic. Said she was Apache.
Sunrise was lost. Shat herself. Sipping a can of Silver Bullet.
She asked me the way to the river. I held out a hand. The pups flanked her and provided a furry surface to guide her shaky form up.
Her walk was unsteady. I told her to get her feet underneath and breath into the belly.
Sunrise queried, “Into the diaphragm?”
“I’m a smart girl.”
“Yep. I know.”
She apologized for her appearance. Ragged hair, halter top, jean shorts, flip flops. Grey eyes that had lost so much hope. We were probably close in age.
“You still look human.”
She had a concussion. Inflammation on her forehead. Told me she had fibromyalgia and several compacted vertebrae from the mid to lower cervical spine. She was scheduled for a surgery two weeks out and didn’t know how she’d get there.
We talked about healing from traumatic brain injury. About her ex that beat her and took everything. About a life that never went right.
“You still have your breath. You still have your spirit. You still have your heart.”
I left her in the park. She said someone was coming by to clean her up.
Wednesday morning’s run was interesting. I have nary been the same.
Hamid : )
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