Breathe. Just Breathe. My Backpack Hits the Floor

Breathe. Just breathe. My backpack hits the floor.

Socks slip on cold wooden floors, the bottoms of my feet already numb by the time I reach the first door on the right. It's alwaysa little hard to shut it behind me; I lean on it slightly as I jiggle the lock until it gives me a tiny click to tell me it's set.

Breathe. I sit down on a threadbare old chair with one of those tatty slipcovers mothers put over seats to keep them clean. But now the covers are dirty and worn, stained with fluorescent

markers and glue from my sister's early artistic endeavors.

Breathe. I raise my eyes to a lilttle plastic clock that looks like it might belong in a child's playroom or a nursery wall. My eyes feel heavy, and with each blink their lids give another gentle swat to the growing pile of tears underneath. I take in a trembling breath, a cry on the edge of my lips, and I'm tempted to let it free. Instead, I close my front teeth, press toward them with my tongue, and let out four short hisses. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. My lungs contract to the beat of the baby blue clock.

Breathe. I take a long breath, hold it for just a moment as the flimsy second hand jerks its way toward the number 12. Then I stand, straightening myself as if I'm unbending a wire hanger, and give one long hiss. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Forty. At forty five I can squeeze out no more.

Breathe. I take a moment to catch my breath before throwing back the sheet covering on our old elecric piano. A press of a button turns it on, and the plastic keys feel cool to my fingertips as I plunk out a chromatic scale.

Breathe. One, two, three, four, five, I sing along with each key as I play. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. One again. I close my eyes and play the scale again, focusing on the distinct color of each one. My mouth opens by itself, as if yearning to match their sound. I hold the first note out on the piano and in my voice until I'm certain the two have merged together. Then Two. Three. By the time I've gotten to the high C and back, my eyes have glued themselves shut.

Breathe. Next come the intervals. Minor second, major second, minor third. My favorite is the perfect fifth so I hold that one out a little longer. There's something so fulfilling about hitting that nterval, something strangely whole in the sound it makes in the room. I do perfect fifth for another two minutes before moving on.

Breathe. Fifteen