It's been pressing on her for a year. Painfully.
That metal piece of whatever you want to call it--expander, though I've called it every name in the book that starts with an "e" and ends with an "er"--served its useful purpose. It broke her. It really broke her. Even her allergies improved.
But boy, it was painful. The piece of metal made it hard to eat. She couldn't feel the roof of her mouth. Did she have any space left in her mouth at all?
It weighed on her heavily for a whole year. A whole year.
"It'll come off next month."
"No, it'll come off next month."
She sat down ... lay back. Hands of relief surround her.
"It's coming off today. It's really coming off," they say.
Relief at last.
Little girl smiles. She feels around in her mouth ... space she forgot she had.
"We won't do anything else today. We'll give it time to heal--see what movement takes place."
Little girl jumps up, leaving all behind, to brush her teeth ... brush all that was broken ... the roof of her mouth ... and rinse. Cleansed.
She feels the cuts--where metal bore down into flesh, impressing, changing. But she can feel. She can feel once again.
Sometimes we have to be broken before we can mend.
Necessary change. And we wonder when we'll find relief.
And then we hear spoken, "Today's the day."
Sometimes we have to fall back into the hands that are capable.
We leave all behind ... all behind that hinders, binds, hurts, cuts.
We feel the impressions, the change.
But we can feel. Really feel.