I remembered the noises, the blackboard finger scratching noises, the clanging noises in my gray dream haze wanderings, and the pain in my legs that felt like a thousand paper cuts. I bandaged the wounds with pillows floating as clouds in the night. Today my body is quiet. There is no turbulence. I can see the light from the window. My head does not throb. Today the sheets are dry. I am going to take a shower and wash.

The screen door shivers and slams shut. Penetrating cold slaps my face. Snow glare makes my eyes close. I step back toward the house. “Out you go,” says my husband, as if I were his daughter. That day with my winter knit cap clutching my head, I learned to love the feel of sun on my face.

Too much cloistered bed rest made my spirit weak. My own visage scared me. I hid in the closet when my husband looked for me. I ran behind parked cars when strangers glanced at me on Main Street.

Was it the pill they gave me, or the flowers my husband brought me, that made me notice the lilac bushes in the yard that spring? What made my lungs fill with air and look any passerby in the face without a whimper?

In the garden I saw a face, a round infant bulb with strands of black smooth hair. I lifted my face upward to the sun with a hand on my soft belly that grew hard with memory. I inhaled the reminiscence of lilacs, and my husband’s soothing hand touching me in bed last night leading me back.