Feet on the floor.
Hands push off the bed
and you move down the hallway
like your father,
a side to side gait.
Inside there is a groan,
and though it never leaves your lips,
it resonates through your body.
There is a darkness in your soul,
a dampness that matches the early morning weather.
The cat cries out at the top of the stairs
and you reach down to pet her.
She erupts with purrs, a vibration of joy,
basking in that single moment of joy,
then runs down the stairs,
heavy footed and eager to be let out.
You follow. More loosely, the stiffness rising
like a summer fog,
You open the door and let her out,
her tail erect in anticipation as she sniffs the air.
You smell it too. Autumn.
A new season, new colors, new death
making way for new life.
She darts into the open air and disappears in the brush.
You smile. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile,
and find your shoes.
You stop and look in the mirror,
your old rheumy eyes younger than they have been in years.
It makes no sense, this aging.
It is a fluid thing.
A wonderment for sure,
a question for the ages,
but not for today.
Today you will be content
to follow the cat.
About this poem.
It was a slow morning getting up. But there was no battle with depression this morning, despite the grey raining day. Just a few old bones, nothing some fresh air and copious amounts of coffee won’t fix.
Fresh air? Check.
It’s going to be a good day.