44 The Meadow We Convert Under Pressure Kolena Jones Kayembe Materials under high pressure cannot retain their shape. Almost anything when subjected to tremendous pressure turns on it itself: expanding, collapsing, or converting into a denser form. I pass through the sliding doors. Catch my breath. Fight off the spins. The woman behind the desk, lips ironed into a negative smile, hands me clipboard, which I pass off—my hands are shaking. The cashier asks for a credit card and the man next to me hands one over. The best I can do is collapse into the chair against the wall, waiting for a nurse to appear with a chair on wheels. She guides me into it, handling me like a porcelain vessel on the verge of cracking and, together, we glide through a nondescript corridor. Tracks of fluorescent blaze above and the speckle of linoleum slaps below. Wheelchairs serve a purpose, but I hate them because they make me feel weak. I used to push my father around in one when he became too ill to use his legs. Up and down linoleum halls we’d race with an imaginary wind at our backs. Spinning out of control, we’d use those wheels to outrace the shadows tethered to his broken body—temporarily holding off the unseen messengers exhaling their conclusive intentions down his neck. I block out the smack of rubber as we roll through two sets of double doors into a large room that smells of homelessness, discharged pus, and bleach. The ceiling is perforated. Cool white shines down. Gross. My skin looks blistered and mottled. A landscape of ruddy undertones, I’ve turned a pigment of rust that’s made by the application of pressure and heat. ‘Trauma’ is stenciled on several of the doors to smaller rooms; places filled with appliances that function as trackers,
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