by Margaret O’Brien
And can you name three farm animals for me? I would, but all I can think about
is how tightly the gauze is wrapped around my head, how it plucks my eyebrows up
to the speckled ceiling tiles that look like cookies ’n’ cream ice cream, and when
the technician measured my cranium and crayoned my scalp, it felt good
to be taken care of—however clinical—her rubbered hands scrubbing, then lathering
warm glue to keep electrodes in place. I become painfully aware of how long it’s been
since she asked me about the animals. I envision my mother and start to grin. I know
she’s watching from the chair wondering why her college student cannot name
what we’ve studied from the very beginning—we are birthed knowing
what feeds on grass. How many books did we read? Books that showed my infant eyes
yes, this is a cow, this is what you are looking for.
