The dust is still settling; the enemy is still in rout; here and there, pockets of resistance still remain.
One of their final stands is the space between my temples: the persistent throb continues its faint tattoo.
Another beleaguered area is the region between my shoulder blades. In spite of habit, I can’t quite stand up straight. The rooting and rising and grounding and expanding required hurts in places beyond the nomenclature of bone and flesh.
So I shuffle into and out of bed, feeling my vulnerability to gravity more acutely than usual, feeling my affinity with the dirt more sharply than desirable.
Is it a hallmark of aging when you see the signs of death of everywhere? Or is it simply the viewpoint of a melancholic mind?
But enough about death and melancholy. The leaves outside my bedroom window glowed as greenly today as they did yesterday and in the face of dulled and deadened taste buds the coffee tasted as caramelly sweet.
It’s a good sign that the wresting (of joy) hasn’t begun to feel like wrestling just yet.
Perhaps tomorrow I won’t need the help of the leaves.