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But for her, I am only disappearing here. Cotton wads or sugar cubes bought specially, for if
I see her again and she wants some. The novelty, the invention. Actually, the years collapse
and research is only so much distance, I’m only assuming they existed. A luxury perhaps, or
something the vet carried. It actually wasn’t until 1937 or 1923 or later in the 1800s I guess,
I don’t know what past I’m aiming for. To be useful to her, to have a thought in her care.
Maybe it’s a timeless kind of longing. The vet more important than a doctor, till an accident I
suppose, till children and it’s whatever the men say, I keep to myself. I feel they feel I should
understand what he’s doing but I’m something secretly unwomanlike, when he calls I feel
outside and left-footed. Somewhere else lingers on me too. Elsewise everyone with rapid hands
and matter-of-fact barns, they settle and settle and carry nothing with them, carry their ways
as if they are the world. They’re raising further up the valley, they’re clearing and calling, flour
and cattle in hand. I stand blousy in my cotton trousers and sweat from my nose. The heat only
awkwardly on me and the cold much the same. We are some the same, I’d say to her. Standing a
little taller, look up into my face. And here, take what you want. Yes it’s true. My unknowing
limbs. I don’t know what the vet needs or when to call for him. Who would I have sent word
with, who can step like kin across my door. I’d rather sink under history, my living beneath
scrutiny, who could know what to do with kitchens and beds. I call no one to supper, my bread
stays flat in my hand.
—Clare Johnson
Earlier versions of Unnamed and Unwomanlike were published together as part of "I Imagine I Come From Somewhere" in quiet Shorts Vol. I, Issue 4, Winter 2011.