Careful, I think, recalling yesterday’s shower, when I slipped and jammed my left shoulder. Still smarts. I kill the taps, shake off, and gingerly maneuver my feet. But my right foot slides. The left follows. They float in slo-mo above me while my chest crashes into the side of the tub. Seconds pass, bright, almost white. I can’t breathe. Ribcage feels crushed. Somehow I rise, dripping, wheezing, panicked. Call 911, I think. No, call your sister. The nonslip bathmat she bought me weeks ago after another near slip sits on the laundry hamper, still wrapped. No, I think. Call 911.
Salvatore Difalco writes from Toronto, Canada. Instagram: @sal_difalco