Over the weekend three people told me that they had also broken their left fifth metatarsal.  The first was the woman that gave Sam his new cockatiel ‘Snowflake.’  At the time she was driving a standard and recommended it to hasten healing of the tendons.  The second was  a wizened woman in Food Lion who said that deep water walking was a great way to stay in shape while hobbled by a peg leg.  The third was a fellow community gardener.  When I told him that the doctor had called it a ‘dancer’s break’ (surely a way to help us clumsy oafs feel a little less klutzy) he laughed.  His doctor had called it a ‘basketball player’s break.’  Sexism is alive and well.

Bob brought over two canes that had belonged to his wife Lynn.  She was quite stylish.  I will look quite jaunty hobbling along with a leopard print cane.  Maybe I can get a pillbox hat to match.

The foot has been changing color everyday.  It reminds me of a childhood injury.  My nose was broken, lip split, both eyes blackened while sleigh riding.  Having no memory of the accident or consequent pain, I was pretty neutral about the whole thing.  I can remember how my family shuddered to look at me, pain at seeing their littlest one mangled.  For myself, I couldn’t wait to look in the mirror every morning.  To me, my face was the aurora borealis, the whole crayola spectrum of flaring and fading bruises moving in unpredictable patterns under my skin.  Today the second and third toe peek from the boot in shades of gray and red.  Saturday’s black smudge on the outer side of the foot is a purplish landscape like the last fading of the sunset at twilight.  The swelling has receded leaving a greenish yellow streak across the top.  There is a bruise on the inner side at the edge of the arch that looks like a giant’s thumbprint, brown edged with blue.  Two blue spots mark the heart of the arch underneath.

Groovy.  Movable tie dye.