Receiving an email I’d never expect,
awaiting a flight that’s delayed,
I read of a favor I didn’t detect
when granted, which your words conveyed.
Without you describing, I’d not recollect
the kindness your missive portrayed.
The truth, is I played fair – I only play me.
I’m happy to meet me from your memory.
Warned off a week ago, I didn’t need
reminding of her cold fragility.
She’s only 42 and stressed indeed,
but compounding the pain, it seems to me,
is lack of confidence, imposter-seed
that’s born of college-prep precosity.
Participation medals lack all brilliance,
and tragically retarded her resilience.
Eight days ago a new campaign began.
Some kids of mine launched add-ons to their game.
We watched from 8 a.m. The tally ran
up quickly and we high-fived with the same
sincerity through messaging as can
in RT be. The thrill by other name
is flooding dopamine. That day was swell.
Another 9 days’ totaling will tell.
When one I love asserts redundantly,
or states how I or someone dear should act,
I shine them on, but very silently
(ignoring, sure, but doing so with tact).
You cover both ears metaphorically,
declaring you will disregard, in fact.
I watch you angrily erect that wall,
and understand your tactic not at all.
I ventured on an extra little stroll
two days ago, to use up half an hour
spare, and buy a snack while on a roll
of energy. I figured I could wear
the sandals engineered to lift my sole
and cushion shock, this long since injury.
And every step felt fine and in control,
till two days afterward my arch went sour.
I’m lacing now, remindful of my goal.
When I was in my prime, I used to ask
myself each morning what I had to do –
what couldn’t be delayed? Which timely task
required my attention, and when through,
just how would I reward accomplishment?
What treat would I enjoy when I was done?
I tried with sweet indulgences, but went
for extra time, on couch or in the sun.
And now I’m old that concept I renew;
there is no benefit surpassing time.
I’m blessed when I leave early to pursue
an errand, a commute, a perfect rhyme.
I’m taking longer getting where I need.
I’m substituting mindfulness for speed.
I hurt my foot and backed off walking much.
I missed it, but my age I don’t forget.
Now after several weeks I’m back in touch
with stamina – I know I’m not dead yet.
I’m lengthening my effort lately, such
that I decided yesterday, the set
of 50 steps was not too steep to stop
me. Pausing twice, I made it to the top.
“I’m not the kind of person who does that”
a dear friend often says, and every time
my brain a little wonky goes, our chat
derailed a moment as within I chime
with “Kind? Are you a template? A format?”
A person is a person. It’s a crime
against all sense regarding self as type,
like aiming for authentic (canting hype).
I first discovered Greek mythology
when I was 12, permitted on my own
to Saturday-ransack the library,
and cycle home with books to read alone.
Outside or in my room with fantasy,
I was content, inspired, charmed and well.
I’d moved from fairy tales and soon would be
beguiled romantically in Austen’s spell.
But when it came to choosing where I’d tread,
I didn’t wait with faith for perfect end.
I took the best on offer then, instead;
pragmatically I’d learned to comprehend.
If otherwise, like her I might have been:
unfruitful, sour, waiting to begin…
Imagine Mom abed at 70,
a drinker all her life and smoking still,
who spoiled both her kids, so presently
one’s slowly dying and the other will
a little later, yes, but all can see
the path is clear for alcohol to kill.
Each one’s alone and may decease, my guess is –
three needless deaths at three discrete addresses.
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