Banff, Alberta The mother elk and 2 babies are sniffing the metal handle of the bear-proof trash bin. I remember the instructions for city people: 3 football fields of space between you & the elk if their babies are with them. I’m backing up slowly, watching the calves run into each other as they bend to eat grass/look up at the mother at the same time. The caramel color of their coat, the sloping line of their small snouts & I want to hold that beauty, steal it for me, but I’m only on football field # 2 & walking into the woods past the lodge pole pines. Their fragility, their awkward bumping opens me to a long ago time— a hand on the door, I was walking in to the psych hospital in Pittsburgh, feeling broken and stripped down— a hand on the door from around my body & I looked up to see the body of a man, who said: Let me get that for you— a hand on the door & the bottom of me dropped/ I couldn’t breathe for the kindness. I couldn’t say how deep that went for me. I had been backing up, awkward/ I had been blind to my own beauty. Copyright © 2015 by Jan Beatty Used with permission of the author. |
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