In years the span’s exceeding 55,
since I first felt the agony of gas.
And from that time, I’ve managed to survive
a few attacks until the toxic pass
occurred. In general, I seem to thrive —
I’m comforted the issue is no mass.
Some trigger eggs today, and family,
took near 4,000 steps to remedy.
Five days before I left, I had no theme
to talk about, no subject to discuss.
I focused on my plans and tried to beam
some calm inside, resisting any fuss
of deadlines, limitations, or extreme
preoccupation, letting no words muss
my musing, sensing scenes will be imbibed
that on return can be word-circumscribed.
It’s just an online test, but it was sent
to me by one who knows a thing or two
of neuroscience. Clearly it’s not meant
to data-mine or sell a point of view.
Results are in, and now it’s evident
that how I self-describe’s precisely true.
I seldom tried to hide how I appeared.
My favorite adjective was always weird.
I’m closing windows, turning off machines,
deploying shades, and soon will lock the door.
Two bags are packed and you know what it means:
I’m off to other regions, to explore
some different ways, fresh attitudes and scenes,
from which I’ll feel renewed and even more.
I’ve made all plans with credit and good faith,
expecting to return September 8th.
I’m grateful for the buses running yet.
I know the system’s ever earning less.
I often ride when walking will not get
me where I wish to go without distress
of time. Directors lately must reset
some schedules and frequencies, I guess.
This stanza marks the ending of a line
that has for decades been a boon of mine.
Among the several reasons not to lie
(avoiding chaos, extra work, and stress),
my adult child states he’ll always try
to tell the truth, and circumvent the mess
that comes along wherever he’d apply
dishonesty. And then he said there’s less
of clarity when memory is dying.
So tidiness is best conveyed by lying.
It took three-quarters of a century,
but someone’s acting lovingly concerned.
Dementia? Maybe frozen memory?
Perhaps a guarded soul has lately learned
to voice real care without apology,
but infant love is finally returned.
Receiving such too elderly to need it,
I smile tenderly and don’t impede it.
The marriage lasted nearly 50 years.
The husband joined his spouse’s family
whole-heartedly, embracing atmospheres
exotic, homely, filled with euphony
he never heard where he matured – a pall
existed in those houses, anger brewed
in silence and absorbed by alcohol,
inheritance in strong addiction stewed.
But now that separation and divorce
becomes the couple’s project, chasm looms.
The family unites and claims en masse
they never really trusted him of course.
They’d rather see him out of all their rooms.
They push him closer to a deep crevasse.
He made me play the Pokemon tutorial last night
when other games would surely be preferred.
The cards were stacked in order so the play’d proceed just right;
for this free dealing would have been absurd.
By contrast Uno could have been a relative delight –
we three’d be happier had it occurred.
But which activity is not the grist.
To play with them’s the act that can’t be missed.
Some days ago she mentioned she can’t rise
from floor to upright confidently now.
She wobbles. And although her trainer tries
providing ways or means, it isn’t how
it used to be. Her body won’t allow
what she remembers we could do back then.
I rise hands-free to stand, in silence bow,
and gratified, I make the move again.
 | sputterpub on About Mom, With Love |
 | groomie on About Mom, With Love |
| sputterpub on No Blocks |
 | Caleb Cheruiyot on No Blocks |
| sputterpub on For Now |
Sputterpub's Blog 