Joshua St. Claire
On First Noticing Edema Developing in My Knuckles
Mother would call for me—open these cans, open this bottle, open this jar. I can’t she would say. My arthritis.
Mom—you’re a young woman. Barely 30. You shouldn’t have arthritis. Arthritis is for grandmas. I’m gathering daffodils. I’m picking raspberries, wineberries, blackberries. The daylilies are up. The peaches are down. The grapes are in. The chestnuts are out. Open them yourself! I’m busy. I’m on the go. I don’t have time for this…
Oh, and the doctors were never any help. Take ibuprofen. Take acetaminophen. Take naproxen. Willow tea. Take them all. It must in your head! The blood tests—the ones she begged for—would just keep coming back negative—until her fingers swelled up, immobile, into fat sausages after she hit 60. Seronegative, the doctor called it. By then, the damage was already done.
Of course, my blood tests are negative too.
Please don’t grab my hand like that. Maybe just a fist bump. It usually feels better by the time I’ve had my first cup of coffee. Isn’t that a woman’s disease? The doctor says I need to keep the joints mobile. I need to use them even when it hurts. Arthritis? but you’re still a young man. Please be gentle with daddy’s hands.
The doctor says it will be glacial—long periods of stability with disastrous and inevitable declines.
corner cupboard the brown sugar turning to stone
About the Author
Joshua St. Claire is an accountant who works as a finance executive in rural Pennsylvania. He enjoys writing poetry on coffee breaks and after helping his wife put their three sons to bed. His work has been published in several journals, including Mayfly, The Heron’s Nest, and hedgerow.