Armadillo

Six years old. I wake as a ball.

Arms clasped across my chest. Braced. Shielded. Fists tight, fingernails pressing into pink palms. Chin down, shoulders up towards my ears. Back curled and knees drawn. Untouchable. Protected. Safe.

Every night, in my childhood bed with blankets over my head and fingers in my ears, I cry quietly. The red transistor radio under my pillow does its best to drown out the bad things outside. It fails.

I am terrified. My body aches. My legs long to stretch out, my shoulders yearn to release, but no, I keep small, tight, I barely breathe.

My sister sleeps in the bed next to mine. Another in the room next door, but I cry, fear my captor.

The neighbours are restless. They argue. Drink. Fight. Across the road screams are heard. Tyres burn. Glass shatters. Faces in the window. Our window. They have come to try and see us. The single woman, the three girls.

Draw the curtains tight. Lock the windows. Go to sleep. She says.

Fifty-one years old. I wake as a ball.

Arms crossed across my chest. Fists tight, fingernails pressing into palms. Chin down, shoulders up. Back curled and knees drawn. Untouchable. Protected. Safe.

This is not by choice. This is habit.

My body aches.  How do I stop this? I am safe now. No more fear. Curtains open, windows unlocked, sleep finds me easily. Yet as the sun rises, and like an armadillo, I unravel, creaking and aching.

I ask myself the familiar question in the gentle soft colours of sleep and wakefulness. How do I put an end to this physical habit? It hurts me. I long for release.

For the first time ever, I hear an answer. Like a breath…” Just let it go now”. I see a shaft of light enter my childhood room and wash over my blonde-haired sleeping form. I see the purple chenille bedspread, the curtains. Sun fills the room. The small me stretches. A full body stretch from head to toe, arms slide out away from my body and that red transistor radio gently falls to the floor. The sun fades out and night fills the room. The curtains lift in the breeze. The window is open. The small child sleeps on, arms outstretched, one leg half off the bed, blonde hair tousled, soft pink palms open, relaxed. Her breathing is soft and deep. A child asleep in the caress of security and peace. A child untroubled, untainted by violence and fear. A soft warm tangle of flannelette and innocence.

It is done.