The Rip

I wasn't ready for how loud it was.

The waiting room was quiet—

just the fluorescent hum,

the old magazines,

a woman coughing into her elbow—

and then the teenager took off the brace.

One sharp rip.

Velcro tearing from itself,

the sound of something being unmade,

and her leg came free,

pale and thin,

marked only with the ghost lines

where the brace had been.

I stared at her leg.

It looked so vulnerable,

as if the brace had been protecting it

from something worse than injury,

something in the air itself,

and now that it was gone,

now that the brace was off,

the leg was suddenly exposed,

suddenly at risk.

But the teenager didn't seem to notice.

She rubbed where the brace had been.

Her skin was almost white.

She flexed her foot, then her knee,

testing the hinge,

making sure it still worked.

I'm thinking about that sound now,

the rip of velcro coming apart.

It stays in the body longer than it should.

We carry the memory of being held,

even after we're healed,

even after the brace comes off,

even after the rip,

even after we're supposed to be free.

The sound meant: you are fixed now.

But my body heard: you are exposed now.

You were never as safe

as the velcro made you believe.