Linda Cronin

FIFTH GRADE DIVISION

In the photo, I am only eleven
and so thin, like a translucent sheet of paper,
the light burning through so it nearly
disappears. My bones close to the surface,
like marble under the skin. My veins narrow,
blue rivers running throughout my body,
feeding the blood my heart pumps
to each finger and toe. My cheekbones
prominent, and my eyes huge in my gaunt face.
This was 1981, anorexia rarely mentioned,
but if it had been ten years later, the rumors
would be rampant. No one believing I wasn't
trying to be thin. I possessed no desire
for food, not even the sweets other children
craved. I became different in many ways.
A disease raged through my body
and destroyed the bones and joints.
I sat stuck on the sidelines during gym
and recess.

That year my class moved downstairs
because I couldn't climb the stairs. The year
of the "talk" when the teacher divided
the kids, each group following
its leader like the pied piper. We learned
about development and our monthly visitor,
as we whispered behind our hands, turned
our eyes from the nurse, and broke into giggles,
embarrassed to talk about our bodies.
Questions ran wild in our heads. We became
afraid we weren't normal, but no one dared
to raise their hand, to stand out
like the north star in the night sky. The nurse
never approached our biggest questions
about sex.

We all sat quietly as the boys filed in
and found their seats, never looking us
in the eye. Their faces bright red
as if they'd been playing soccer.
As soon as the lunch bell rang, we ran
for the lunchroom. The girls made a beeline
for a table by the windows while the boys
sat by the door. No longer united.
No more chatting about classes, friends,
sports, movies. The talk divided us
by our sexes, bonded us to our bodies,
and marked us by our differences.
I sat quietly, watching the other girls,
trying to fit in, afraid they would realize
I was different.

* * *

MEMORY

I forget so many things:
the year my Great-grandmother was born,
the name of my first grade teacher,
and the face of my grandfather
who died when I was a child.

But I remember the summer green of my father's eyes,
like the snap peas that grew in his garden,
the sound of my mother's voice
as she tucked me into bed and said goodnight.
I remember the first time I attended school
in a wheelchair, so worried about what
the other kids would think, what
they would say, and I remember the excitement
of racing down the hallway at the end of the day
being pushed by Peter or Cara, only slowing
down when we reached the door.

And I remember your laughter mellow and rich
like the figs we devoured in front of the fireplace,
the comfort and strength of your arms
as you cradled me as I cried out in pain
in the night, and the way you looked at me,
the way you stroked my skin with love and desire
as if I was worthy.

Linda A. Cronin, a poet and writer of fiction, recently completed her first poetry collection Dream Bones, which will be published in April 2010. Diagnosed as a child with rheumatoid arthritis, she expresses herself and explores the issues she faces through writing. Cronin's work has appeared in The Patterson Literary Review , Kaleidoscope, The Journal of New Jersey Poets, Rattle and Lips.