Family sorrow is my puffy bags, on my hooded lids, from way back, but it’s ok, I’m not stopping.
Skin sags under this feeble chin, connecting to pictures in black and white, where poses suppressed their reality, but it’s ok, I will continue.
Heaviness the sentence of my stance, grinding hip sockets, a weak abdomen, my age suddenly doubled, but that’s fine, I am not backing off from their call.
Pain throbs in random places, and vague aches refuse to dissolve for good, or reveal their true origin. A sense of ligaments pulling by their own volition, my nerve endings overreact. An elder’s frail voice suggests uncertain ending, a flash glimpse, and I’m here, still doing the thing.
Brain fog comes and goes. Sometimes, the morning recharges clarity, then clouds set in again soon after midday. Housework exertion gets the blood flowing, and oxygen clears up space, but the aftershock arrives into the afternoon, with its familiar fatigue, palpitations up the stairs.
But I’m on it anyway, as the wind wails, trying to discourage my discoveries. I’m writing it while a hurricane sums up strength on the horizon, dimming the sitting room for moments. But I keep going, because when the sunlight peers momentarily, it still warms my back, and says to take it to the finish line, to the Sun, to Him. And I will, all the karma collected in this body, all their wailing, their angsty winds, I’ll take it all out to dry, and sanitize, in His light.