I AM AFRAID TO OWN A BODY–
Should I show you this?
I am afraid to own a Body —
I am afraid to own a Soul —
Profound — precarious Property —
Possession, not optional —
Double Estate — entailed at pleasure
Upon an unsuspecting Heir —
Duke in a moment of Deathlessness
And God, for a Frontier.
Emily Dickinson, 1830-18861
Today, March 23, 2022, was the first time in a long time that my dog, Gizmo, did not run away from me when I started to cry.
At the beginning of quarantine, I established a rhythm that started with ritualized crying in the morning as I watched the nightly news on YouTube. Seeing hospitals, machine-powered bodies, and nurses with bruised faces from tight masks all struck a deep, resonant chord within me. Uncontrollable suffering was happening not only all around me but also in my own living room.
I lived in a studio apartment in a complex I called the Mustard Lodge. As the pandemic powered on, pest control stopped visiting. Roaches would climb out of the electrical sockets and burrow safely behind pictures on the wall. When my lease was up, I was ready to run – disgusted and horrified.
Still, it contained significant history. One of my dogs crossed over the last arc of her life in this apartment. When I moved in, it was my first time living on my own. And soon after, it was the first time I lived with someone I wasn’t related to. These milestones mimicked a version of adulthood I had not yet experienced. I felt matured by them.
My morning ritual of feeling the devastating impact of SARS-CoV-2 was paired with the soft, concerned eyes of my dog. Hearing me cry, he would climb into my lap and look at me, assessing. That image of his eyes looking at me is something I hold close to my heart because, without knowing it, one of those mornings was the last that he looked at me that way.
Throughout my partnership, I became increasingly emotionally unstable. Frustrated, not willing to accept that who I wanted to be in a relationship with and who I was actually in a relationship with were two different people. I could feel the gears in my brain locking up, stuttering, and grinding. I was furious. Self-sacrifice was ingrained in me, and caregiving was a constant in my life.
Why couldn’t he see me? Or see who I thought he could be?
When I was alone, my tears were paired with outbursts. It is hard to maintain linear order in my brain. But not even before we moved from the roach-infested apartment to The House, Gizmo would hide from me. A big sigh or sudden inhale, both precursors to tears, would send him running under the bed. Now grief was paired with anger and self-harm. I would often wish to be unconscious.
I don’t know how long it has been since we separated. I think it has been nearly a year. Maybe more. I imagine time as the folds of an accordion. Each fold is a memory. Occasionally they spread and press together with a melodic, slow rhythm. Other times they violently crash.
I sat to write. Thinking of it all. How to continue. A sob bubbled out. Gizmo came out from under the bed, still afraid with his tail tucked. I told him it was okay. He let me pet him.
There are twin photographs framed in an elongated home. Viewed through the bedroom door, I sit on the edge of the bed. The bedsheets I sit on are used to upholster the photographs’ frame. Down feathers fill the space between the wooden frame and the used worn sheet. The down is from a pillow we used to keep on the bed. An exasperated collapse on the pillow would sometimes release one of these feathers. They would suspend in the air and land on the bed, sometimes offering a sudden, violent poke in the night.
In the images, I sit with a large winding arm and hand wrapped all around me. The fingers of the hand drape between my legs. I wear a hand-me-down deep purple nightgown. A handmade quilt rests on the bed amidst a pile of pillows and blankets.
In the top image, I am resolved to carry this weight. Maybe even determined.
In the second frame, my face blurs as I burst into laughter.
I set up the tripod outside the bedroom door of The House, trying to manage my 35mm lens. It was cumbersome to focus the lens, set the timer, and sit back in my spot carrying the nearly 20-pound arm.
I asked my then-partner to help me, to press the shutter as I adjusted my pose and expression. I remember him making a joke. Me, genuinely laughing. He caught me then, mid-guffaw.
Should I show you this?
In the middle of it all,
do I show my laughter?
Amherst College Digital Collections, Transcription of Emily Dickinson's "I am afraid to own a body"
A transcription of Emily Dickinson's poem "I am afraid to own a body." The transcription is part of the collection of transcriptions of Dickinson's poems produced by Mabel Loomis Todd for publication in a volume edited by her. Most transcriptions are in Todd’s own hand; some are typed, and some were transcribed by other individuals. A penciled notation is written above the transcript in pencil. The item is undated. The date range is based on the year Emily Dickinson died and the year the final volume of Dickinson's poems and letters that Mabel Loomis Todd edited was published.