Knee replacement seems an affront to me.
An insult to my body’s integrity.
taking out the knee
which served me so faithfully,
to be replaced by utter falsity.
It will work as a joint should, assuredly.
But, it really means my new knee
is no longer the real me.
The me who knocked together,
whenever I was afraid, with the other.
The knee who knelt in the pew to pray
within the family group every Sunday.
The knee which moved the feet
when I practiced my ballet,
and danced across the stage
on tap shoes, then all the rage.
The knee that touched yours
when we danced close,
hearts beating down to our toes.
The knee where every baby bounced
while we played horsey and laughed in glee.
The knee that pushed me to my feet
to object to opposing counsel in court;
or at a hearing to enact
what I considered an unjust act.
The knee that bent down to sow
seeds in a garden bed cleared of weeds.
The knee that pushed away
an unwelcome hand or worse.
The knee that I slapped in glee
when I heard a funny verse.
I love that knee.
I hate to see it go.
Part of me goes with it, I know.
Piece by piece each surgery,
has diminished the real me.
My reaction is a form of PTSD
recalling all the times I was told
I was too much, or not enough.
Did my body listen to such guff?
Did I push my knee too hard,
dismantle its soft protective layer,
to satisfy too many others?
It is only a knee, you say.
Not to me. Not today.
annarino writes 