How much time has passed? There seems to be some order now, to my brain. I can actually express thoughts with some clarity. I notice I stutter some. And people correct me when I grab the wrong word out of the heap. I feel apologetic and flawed. Ashamed and alienated.
My memory is still fractured, with pieces missing, much like my old Anasazi pot. Carefully cradling it in my hands, I am struck by how similar we are. Both of us
are survivors. Someone told me I could have died that night when I experienced septic shock and the fire scalded my brain. They said I have a traumatic brain injury. PTSD. How humiliating.
Now, like my pot, I am weathered, scarred, burned, and pieces of me are missing. I guess maybe I still have the remnants of the original “me” somewhere inside. I’m not sure who that “me” was though.
I love this old pot, just the way it is now. I love it, simply because it is broken.
I wonder, will I still be loved, blackened and broken, just as I am?