Recovery

On the first day, I didn’t know
it was the first day.
The second, third and fourth passed.
And on the eighth day something
remarkable, but I didn’t tell anyone.
Remarkable, and I didn’t know.
I noted some markers like weekends
and seasons, anonymous months.
No one else attended every day of
the long long time but some noticed
the unclenching. Evening and morning
came, the 90th day. Some days later,
in an afternoon walk, beauty opened
and I inhaled. Religion preceded
and followed and did no harm,
but the weight of a carapace and
a quietly sober dream (Cain’s wandering?)
offered commentary on death.
So dying is essentially part of it,
not killing. And dying essentially
the most beautiful song.
After ten thousand days,
I knew the counting would never end,
but this interest in ordinary time sustains
itself in a still thirsty soul.
Comments are automatically closed two weeks after an article's initial publication. See our comments policy for more.

Advertisement

The latest from america

How can we spare the time to let others know of our care and concern?
Elizabeth Kirkland CahillDecember 11, 2018
The paralytic’s friends might have told him in dismay, “Let’s come back another day when it is less of a hassle.” But that is not what they said.
Elizabeth Kirkland CahillDecember 10, 2018
There is scarcely a parent alive who has not at some point uttered the words, “You’re not wearing that, are you?”
Elizabeth Kirkland CahillDecember 09, 2018
The three questions God asks Adam and Eve lay bare the threefold nature of their wrongdoing.
Elizabeth Kirkland CahillDecember 08, 2018