Quiver: to shake or move with a slight trembling motion. Origin: Middle English, probably from quiver agile, quick; akin to Old English cwiferlice zealously First Known Use: 15th century ~ Merriam-Webster
It is this trembling motion I feel in my heart today. As though a thousand tiny snowflakes caught in glass are swirling about my insides. Quiver. Tremble. Judder.
From the outside, I look fine. No, better than fine. I look great! Better than expected. As though nothing had happened. Amazingly well. But what do we know about outsides? They could be made of clay or putty or stone. Outsides are designed to look okay. When I cry, people say they would never have known. When I am angry, I do not flush. I look perfectly normal.
It is the insides. Quiver. A stomach in knots, filled with butterflies and ladybugs and bubbling, gurgling acids. A pair of lungs pumping harder, faster, filling fuller and deflating flatter. Muscles that twitch at the notion of movement, of lunging and grasping and vaulting away, away, away.
Tremble. When I am furious, it is my insides which rumble. My skin a soft blanket covering jagged edges and sharp blades. When elated, it is the membrane of a balloon, stretching and expanding to contain the excitement, the bursting molecules of air, within.
Today I am aquiver. I am all sinew and bone, rattling and rambling and jostling about.
Today I am a quiver. I am the place containing arrows, the ideas on straight rods with pin-point precision, waiting ready to leap forward and land in the center of the target, the exact place where they will flourish and blossom and impact with deftness. I am a quiver, slung on the back of an Amazon rider. I hold the moments of satisfaction, of the hunt, of sustenance. I am a quiver carrying the means to my own survival.
Quiver. Tremble. Judder.