This is part of a series of metaphors where I try to describe what it feels like to live inside my body.
Sometimes, late at night, when my legs are very weak I lay and wait for them to recover and they’re not really there. They feel translucent. Not transparent, not opaque. They’re not gone entirely, like during a spinal block or epidural, but they’re not entirely present. Ghost legs. An impression of what should be. Floating somewhere between mattress and blanket. And as I lay and wait they gain form. Solidify. Press their weight into the bed, feel the folds of the sheets. They come into focus and I am whole again.
(My legs, weary after travelling all day and then missing the last train home. Waiting at Union Station for my brother to pick me up so I can sleep on his couch and try to get home again in the morning.)