Where it's "at"

Laying in bed last night, my boy began naming the words on the word wall in first grade. "At is the first one," he said. He got quiet and considered the implications.

"At is a very famous word."

At is transportation and definition. It takes and places you. It's a tiny two-letter vehicle that minuses the alternatives, and collects everything into a here-and-now-boys place that's clear and cohesive.

" ... I'm at Hollywood," Jack said happily, magically.

I love where he's at. But me? It's not so clear. Moms can't get sick. It's just not done. And yet, that's where we're at. For the past four months, I've watched as my feet then my legs have lost function, to the point I'm in a wheelchair. I've watched the everyday things we take for granted slip away ... taking a hot bath, reaching to open curtains to the snow, getting the day's mail. The world has kept spinning as my peripheral nerves have stopped firing, inch by inch; I've filed stories (mostly) on deadline, as doctors poke and cut and load me with medicines, as we all remain puzzled. And despite it all, no one knows where my body is at.

Jack is right: At is a very famous word. And I am going to keep trying to find it.

Maybe I need my own word wall.