Insomnia just about fells me. Nightly I swallow hope in green and blue, to no avail.
So much to say goodbye to. I grope about for prospect, possibility, mourn formerly able hands. The tiniest gesture could elevate a tired day: I’d thread a strand of hair through a needle’s eye, ready for something; cut a dress from an autumn leaf, its curly stalk making it dance; chart ideas on post-it notes, for better times. My crochet hook spelled c-a-r-p-e d-i-e-m. Bit by bit I drew myself up, nature to nurture to culture.
I’ve never felt more embodied, never less. As capacity and vision wane, I find through writing the last unlittered chamber in the house M.E. built, where illness hollers curses through the door, but cannot enter, overwhelm. Here desire reigns, and I heave myself up again, wring silvery notes from silence, throw swansongs to the wind. Oh, did I mention: pathos is alive and well!