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?"
First, you filled my heart. Then you inspired me to make a random phone call to my son in Chicago who is busy enough I never expect to be answered. Then my son lifted me in ways I didn’t know I needed or think was possible, in part because he so thoroughly remembered and reminded me of how I had lifted him.
Don’t hurry your ankle.as you know, the pain is a reminder that your body seeks care.
I love how your poems start out seeming like they're about something mundane but gradually get deeper and deeper until bam they wallop you with such an emotional ending.