Shivers: The Absence

Shivers: the Absence Eric Stephens

These winds. Snaking under my sleeves. Coming forth from autumn. Whispering of winter. They remind me of that first cold. That chill. As I hung there naked. Wet. Dangling from some doctor's hands. Just thrust from my mother's womb.

These winds. Brushing chimes together into organic rhythm. Hanging there from trees and above doorways. Creating random song that takes me back to my crib. My baby-cage.

It must have been winter. I had been created. Formed and constructed, with little ease on the part of man. Late August, '79. Ten p.m. A dark sky, thick with thunder, welcomed me. Lightning still burns my eyes on stormy nights. I still stare in amazement. Into its core.

I came after my brother. A year and four months. Five years after my father found my mother in her own little world: Fingers all in dance, brushing plastic keys. Typing with rhythm. Enjoying the rush to the end of a line. The ringing of the typewriter as she reached it. The return. The pause. And

starting again. Noticing a small picture frame on her desk, holding a horse within its edges, he questioned her, does your husband like horses? And when she replied, no. I don't have a husband. Not even winter winds could have held them back. Not even snakes in the snow.

That day in the hospital. They waited on me for hours. Did I not want to come? Was I waiting for just the right moment to expose myself? Maybe they had wanted a girl, already having one boy. And I, lacking ovaries, was afraid to disappoint them. So I concealed myself as I emerged. Little hands reaching down. Folding over private parts not required.