This is how I begin my day:
staggering to the bathroom,
staggering back out.
This is how I continue my day:
sitting before the television,
bored and more than a little scared.
This is how I finish my day:
staggering to the bathroom,
staggering back to lie down and sleep.
Every day begins and ends the same way.
The continuity in between stays
pretty much the same as well.
I write more or less the same way
from day to day — marveling at the vibrancy
of the vision behind my eyelids
until I at last open my eyes
and it’s all unchanged from the previous day.
I begin to settle from ecstasy to despair.
Still and all — there is hope, of course.
There is hope for change and disruption,
even for a simple change of clothes.
A tunic would be sweet; baggy linen trousers;
perhaps a small cap to hold my head together.
Or perhaps I’d just stay naked
and worry less about who can see me.
No one cares much, after all. I’d be a spirit
and a ghost and not care, I think —
anything except what I am: beginning
and ending the same way day to day;
marking the in-between with a sob or two.
Right now, for instance? At mid-day, mid-week?
Standard dress: sweatshirt, sweat pants, socks.
That’s pretty much it; that and fear, of course.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T
October 28th, 2026 at 2:23 pm
Oh wow! In many ways this describes my days. Except at 89 I realize that all the changes that I’ve witnessed and adjusted to, do flesh out our human instinct for survival. To find meaning in it is another whole world of challenge. I have realized that my long journey has had one amazing consequence: I can understand and care about those I used to consider my enemy and judge harshly. While I still oppose their take on life and attempts to control mine, I can no longer judge them. We are born different in what wounds and cripples or nourishes us. And not money or even power protects us as children. Our journey is one of becoming open to healing from recognizing our built in human frailty and nourishing growth by loving ourselves and gradually expanding into being able to love those so different from us that we perceive them as the enemy. It doesn’t mean we don’t fight what we perceive as injustice. It’s just a “judge not, lest we be judged.” At 89 accepting that I didn’t fulfill any dreams of greatness, but touched lives in small, but significant ways that I don’t even recognize is the key to peace. Your poetry touched and nourished my life. I have missed it very much. I understand nights of regrets and moments of despair. But have had times of enlightenment and deep joy that are grace in the desert years. You have mattered to this little old lady over years. Even your despair, because I have been there. I was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a year and a half ago. Had to change my exterior life drastically, because I walked with my mother through her fourteen years of dying by inches, so knew I needed to make drastic practical changes since I am unfortunately very healthy physically. Please keep writing. Finding joy in tiny things we often didn’t notice and coming to grips with our failed hopes and dreams, accepting that we touched lives in ways we won’t know in this life and that is enough. I feel so sad that I can’t reach out in some better way to make you aware that you have mattered to people in ways you are unaware of. Know at least there is one LOL (little old lady) that you have inspired, encouraged, challenged, and been grace for, so I’m pretty sure there are a lot more out there like me. Eileen Norman
October 28th, 2026 at 2:01 pm
Wow. I love the ghost metaphor—aging definitely feels like a rising tide of invisibility to me. Thanks for emailing it! I really do read your work and am always enriched by it, Tony.
>