The Infinite Pieces of Us

by Rebekah Crane

I am no longer a whole number. I carry a decimal now. Each box in my room is just a reminder of my remainder. The problem is, I can’t figure out if I’m less than or more than I was before. I know I’m not the same.

I step back, wobbling on my feet because my blood isn’t pumping right, and I haven’t breathed in a while. It’s happening again—I’m being chased by memories, and yet I’m paralyzed. My only choice is to let it wash over me.

Which leads to my theory that Hannah’s Bible is Spanx, those things you wear underneath a dress to make you look skinnier. They suck you in and hold you in all the right places so it looks like you have really great curves. And then you take the Spanx off and stand naked in front of your mirror and what do you get? Reality. If I took that Bible away, I think Hannah would look quite different.

Hello, Esther, I see you in there. Come out. Is that what the universe is saying right now? And is it safe?

“She told me to get used to it. She told me that being a parent meant being perpetually afraid that something might happen to the one thing you don’t want to lose. That every day you’ll worry and think about this possibility to the point of madness, until all that’s left is to throw your hands up and have faith that it’s all going to be OK.”

“Faith and bullshit wear the same clothes. It’s impossible to know which is which.”

That’s the plight of women—no matter how miraculous we are, we still have to live in a world governed by men’s standards.

“All it took was climbing into the palm of Jesus for me to no longer be afraid of him,” Color says. “That’s poetic.”