Walking wounded has become a way of life.
Aging does that with its strife.
One cannot complain of shoulders strained
from lifting sleeping children to their beds.
Nor, of knocking knees collapsing from the strain
of running the race to prove one can keep the pace
set by others’ expectations and lack of consideration.
A back bent into permanent library position
after years of reading, writing and speechifying
lacks the strength to stretch, so de-conditioned
it too often can no longer bend as love requires.
Arthritis has found a home in the space between each bone.
Then, the accidents begin to appear as bodies flail and fall.
Gnarled hands no longer grasp knives and water’s glass,
making messes everywhere one can no longer reach.
Nothing and no one can be held tight, nor safely handled.
No more pulling weeds, making unsightly lives lovely
as the body and the garden go to seed.
“Enough is enough” becomes a distraught creed
for those in constant pain who cry out in need;
“No.No.No… Not again !” when the trash can upends
as carted to the street; instead, landing on one’s feet
and smashing toes until they bleed,
filling shoes and minds with blood as one succeeds
in filling tasks no longer easy to attend, as bodies break and mend.
We all know how this ends. Too soon. No need to pretend.
Or, perhaps, too soon not to ignore the aches and pains
of a full life lived courageously and well.
Each day a new life begins. Life continues and never ends.
Now, that, I can gladly pretend.
A body on the mend may not look pretty.
But, this old body lives life gratefully, and gritty.
