Ankle Sprain 101

a poem

Photo by Nino Liverani on Unsplash

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I haven't walked in two weeks
because of a severe ankle injury

so I sometimes have to crawl.
And I'm grateful, grateful

that my right leg is strong
enough on its own to lift

and lower my body as needed.
This morning, while crawling

the short distance from bed
to bookshelf, I remembered reading

somewhere that crawling
is part of the physical process—

the holistic business—wherein
humans first begin to learn

math. We can add and subtract
because we crawled. Of course,

humans also find alternate ways
of learning when necessary.

We compensate. So here I am,
nearly 60 years old, crawling

while frustrated and amused.
But, hey, this past weekend,

I noticed a small Lego piece
wedged into a corner between

carpet and wall. I only saw it
because I was so close

to the floor. I only noticed
because an outside event

had altered my perceptions
of the world. That's when

I realized that we don't need
to search for ceremonies

because the ceremonies
will find us. So crawling

as an adult has reminded me
that my sons once crawled

these same floors. I think
of how they'd sit back

on their haunches, raise
their arms toward me,

and asked to be lifted.
And I would, I would—

I carried my sons across
a thousand landscapes.

So, decades later, trapped
by injury, I text my son,

"Hey, can you bring me
some ice water, please,"

which is an aging
father's way of asking

"Dear child, dear child,
can you now lift me?"