One becomes two and two becomes four and that becomes three before going back to one. We cannot do what we have been asked, counting the ways that we cheat ourselves. We move rocks, my sister and I, chiseled stone, quarried gravel, boulders from landslides that block the roads to home and space and Hana and alternate realities in which we wear business suits and carry takeout cups of steaming beverages bearing cardboard sleeves to protect our hands, the blisters healed, gashed wounds un-cracked and the solid stone sleeping in the Earth, waiting for artists and tradeswomen and those who now mend nets.
Sarah Bigham teaches, paints, and writes in Maryland, where she lives with her kind chemist wife, their three independent cats, and an unwieldy herb garden. Her work appears in Bacopa, Entropy, Fourth & Sycamore, Pulse: Voices from the Heart of Medicine, Rabbit, skirt! Magazine, and elsewhere.