Who weighs options when they feel weightless?
It’s fun, for a while–leaving it all up to chance and whim.
There are times that seem so bleak, with no silver-lined rim to rely on.
But waiting for help doesn’t stop there: you’ve got a chance to abscond, so take it now.
(Comment: Hi fellow bloggers, but I’m sad to inform you, but as of tomorrow, I’ll be inactive here for a while because I need to go to a medical facility for treatment, and I won’t have internet access except through my smartphone. Maybe all the nurses will be as charming as all of you; I don’t know, but I hope to see you soon!)
The earnings’s great –If you cover the cost–
They’ll print you money, until you’re embossed!
It’s all a game –Don’t believe what you hear–
You have a chance now –But I’ll be clear–
By taking this job, all your needs are met…
–Except, what you’ll lose…you won’t forget–
An easy prompt to cast, this word,
“as we wait for the redemption of our bodies…”
As easy as a dwelling house; as easy as the words a father says.
How can one hope in what is unseen?
I’ve waited and hoped; I’ve relied on you all along…
She sighed; rolled her eyes.
She pressed on the bridge of her nose and closed the blinking browser window.
She adjusted her glasses, smiled,
“Life-hacks like these won’t do…not if you want to move toward tear-inducing agony.”
She gestured with her hand,
“Pinch your lower lip, hard.”
The next morning, I took her to the outpatient clinic.
We waited for her check-in; I sat next to her; held her pulsing hand.
Lots of people today. She mumbled.
A case manager placed a white-noise machine outside the door of the staff office:
Soothing purrs blanketed so many whispers.
A first: going back to her place, watching her sleep.
She preferred repose on her side; her right foot crossed beneath her left to feel her knee, hip and shoulder pressed into the firm mattress.
She slept with her arm extended, her hand reaching for an embrace that rarely arrived.
It’s such a dilemma, being a skeptic—the crux was losing those innocent beliefs I formed in Sunday school.
I wore the essential dresses and shoes; I smiled; I prayed; I tried to trust and adhere.
But as Chance would have it, I only learned to smirk:
I’m a sinner.
Was it the strain of being so restrained and reserved that impelled the always equable N. to do it?
Neither of us could be candid about why she’d traced such immane lines into her arms.
Before I could respond, the kettle on the stove began whistling fierce notes.
When I went home, my parents were caring for a limp, but quiet, child—the result of some undiagnosable brain damage at birth.
His body held a blank repose in the crib as he watched a prismatic mobile spin overhead.
Even so, he’d still smile whenever I stroked his ears.
After four years of school and competitive swimming, a meet brought me there.
This homecoming was more for my parents than myself, but they had a screened-in pool I used for making laps…or, having a lapse.
Planted on the eaves of their waters was the rusted lantern of my childhood.