I’m keeping count of my cells to make sure I know if any go missing

by Amy Clark

It starts in the diaphragm. A contraction. A squeeze, in and down, like a snail retreating into its shell. Then the intercostal muscles mimic it, tightening, pulling in, wrapping around. The ribs push up and away, the ribcage expanding against its skin, their outline straining to be seen. The lungs drink greedily, gulping oxygen, inflating like a balloon. There’s a moment. And then it all shifts. The diaphragm relaxes, the muscles soften, ribs nestle back. The lungs exhale, their appetite finally satiated, and they deflate, ejecting the stale, unwanted air. And then it begins again. And again. And again, over 22,000 times a day.

Apparently, there are cells within cells within cells within cells within cells and it just continues forever, I guess. And someone told me that as though it was the most exciting thing they’d ever heard because it’s like having galaxies and universes inside you, something about being made of stardust. But it made me feel a bit nauseous and irresponsible and soft and my eyes became like glue because I don’t understand it at all but apparently that doesn’t change the fact that I still am and was and will be all of these things.