I did not know what to with my body. It was always there, following me around, working restlessly day and night to keep itself alive. There was not an instance where I could enjoy just a few minutes on my own, unless I forced this bulky mass of cells to sit down and its nerve center to focus on its respiratory function. This is not what I signed for when I came down to Earth. Nobody warned me how incredibly burdensome a body would be: it needs to be fed, but just the right amount, not too much, not too little, otherwise it does not work properly; it requires regular maintenance, and the longer you stick around the more maintenance it needs, especially if point one (food) was not appropriately administered. And then…it comes with such a long list of people, things, ideas which all have a saying on how it should look or, even worse, which can affect its proper operational efficiency by misting its center. It gets so engrossed in all the meaningless noise around it, that it does not hear ME, no matter how much I shout. I wanted to give it back, but I was told that this would mean the end of my experience here.

I have though just started; I barely had a few decades on Earth. Once you get a grip on the whole body issue, there are some fun and interesting things to do here. One of my favorite things used to be gardening until crochet needles replaced hand spades and pruning shears. The triggering event for this quite radical change was a fault in the filtering system of the body, which caused my legs to become filled with liquids like water balloons. Only, a spiky tool was not sufficient to release all the water and I was thus invited to spend several months in the hospital to both find a solution to the current water excess as well as to prevent it. While my legs were heavy and made walking painful, my hands were restless and full of energy, my brain full of potentially dangerous thoughts. My family members took turns to see me and did their best to keep my mood up. One day even my oldest aunt came to sit with me for a few hours. Our trivial conversation lasted just a few minutes, an effort was then made by both sides to keep it going for a little longer, filling it with some old memories (her side) and future plans (my side), until we both fell silent. Too early for her to leave, from her bag, which looked made from an old curtain, she took her hook and thread. Her legs were almost as bad as mine, but her curled fingers were incredibly agile and seemed to create new loops almost as fast as my body created blood cells. She stopped from time to time to give her hands a rest, but after a few minutes she sighed and resumed her intricated work. I watched fascinated how in those couple of hours her yard curved, her stiches clustered leaving empty spaces, then expanded again to create a light path between two rows. We did not exchange any other words that day, but when my mother came to fetch her, I asked my aunt if she would come again next day and teach me some crochet.

From that day on, I was hooked, pardon my word. Even though according to the noise around the body, even though crocheting could be tolerated as a time killer while in the hospital but not suitable for my body once I went back into society, I keep creating elaborated threaded designs. And when I will finally return this defective body, my coffin will be wrapped in empty spaces surrounded by long, fine yards, while delicate Jasmin flowers will spread their fragrance around the funeral attendees, both of my passions accompanying my transition.

****

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