It’s just that there is so much I want to see. For so much of my life, I have shut my eyes tight. Spent a regrettable sum of years in fear, and so very alone. I did not go to school, though many days brought longing eyes to where the other children trudged each morning. And I had no family to live with, even when I needed them the most.
And now, I have scrapped together a life worth living. It was not an easy feat, and even to this day, at 72, I struggle. I live in a small cottage, that has known many slammed doors, and renovations that never seem to last more than a decade. A groan ensues each time I amble across the cramped dining space that I hardly use. And from this cottage that has a lot to say, at 7 am sharp, I make my way on my bike to the lone Hardees Diner among miles of plateaued road. I station myself at the backmost table, as I’ve grown accustomed to the light from the window that wears itself behind my head. But the very few customers (igniting a dreadful quiet), and staff that couldn’t care less about my commands leaves me spent and weary. And when my voice has finally grown hoarse, and my eyes tired, I make my way through the falling darkness, back to that little cottage. A threadbare life I live, no doubt, but this simplicity doesn’t bug me one bit.
At least not when I am a leaf, riding on the every breath the world takes, zipping just above the murky waters and basking in my youth unrecalled. When I am the tawny feathered bird, hopping feebly in the dust soil, tugging at worms intertwined with sun-hardened roots. Or when I am the rainclouds that once made me cower below. I let myself melt over everything, multiplying until I pool at the trees feet, whole once more.
Whole, even though the bareness of my days does rub raw against me. Whole, because I have grown to love this deep divide once the day succumbs to dark.
At 72 I have a place. To return to. To escape, and to be.
When you see me I am simply another gnarly tree branch, grounded in amity.
And now, I have scrapped together a life worth living. It was not an easy feat, and even to this day, at 72, I struggle. I live in a small cottage, that has known many slammed doors, and renovations that never seem to last more than a decade. A groan ensues each time I amble across the cramped dining space that I hardly use. And from this cottage that has a lot to say, at 7 am sharp, I make my way on my bike to the lone Hardees Diner among miles of plateaued road. I station myself at the backmost table, as I’ve grown accustomed to the light from the window that wears itself behind my head. But the very few customers (igniting a dreadful quiet), and staff that couldn’t care less about my commands leaves me spent and weary. And when my voice has finally grown hoarse, and my eyes tired, I make my way through the falling darkness, back to that little cottage. A threadbare life I live, no doubt, but this simplicity doesn’t bug me one bit.
At least not when I am a leaf, riding on the every breath the world takes, zipping just above the murky waters and basking in my youth unrecalled. When I am the tawny feathered bird, hopping feebly in the dust soil, tugging at worms intertwined with sun-hardened roots. Or when I am the rainclouds that once made me cower below. I let myself melt over everything, multiplying until I pool at the trees feet, whole once more.
Whole, even though the bareness of my days does rub raw against me. Whole, because I have grown to love this deep divide once the day succumbs to dark.
At 72 I have a place. To return to. To escape, and to be.
When you see me I am simply another gnarly tree branch, grounded in amity.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.