Thirty-One: Week Fifty-One

Days three hundred and fifty-one through three hundred and fifty-seven

Photo by Tanya Trofymchuk on Unsplash

Welcome back to Thirty-One, the project where I attempt to write something every day for a year. If you missed any previous issues, you can find them here.

Day Three Hundred and Fifty-One (April 11th)
A good storm arrives slowly,
creeping in, building tension 
with every low rumble of thunder
tugging itself closer
to where you wait.
Darkness descends 
one shade at a time,
calmer than the wind
whipping you into a frenzy.
Your insides anticipate 
the coming crush of rain,
only calming when the sky
finally makes good on its threat.
In that moment, you are another cloud
exhaling your pent-up desire. 

Day Three Hundred and Fifty-Two (April 12th)
Sometimes, it’s enough 
to simply notice what shifts
within you. You can do
after you see. 

Day Three Hundred and Fifty-Three (April 13th)
We’re not going anywhere. 
עם ישראל חי 

Day Three Hundred and Fifty-Four (April 14th)
You are always healing
even if you can’t see
the mending, the renewal
of cells at every level
of your being

Day Three Hundred and Fifty-Five (April 15th)
Pain settles in like a dog
preparing its bed. It circles,
shifting things around to its liking.
When satisfied with its work, it sinks in
for a deep sleep, oozing
into every available nook and cranny.

Pain is a weight you cannot lift.
No matter how hard you struggle,
your fingers find no purchase.
It entangles itself so thoroughly
within you that it becomes you.
You are no longer human.
You are only pain. 

And yet, there are times
when you can see the space 
between you and the pain. 
For a moment, you are you again.
For a moment, you can breathe.

But only for a moment.

Day Three Hundred and Fifty-Six (April 16th)
When was the last time you exhaled fully? How long have you been holding onto bits of spent breath?

Day Three Hundred and Fifty-Seven (April 17)
I took my mom to physical therapy today, and I passed a strange sight when I pulled into the parking lot. A small branch (or maybe a large stick?) poked out from the storm drain on the side of the road. Some kind of cloth was draped over, and at first glance, I thought it was a swan. I saw a swan’s head emerging from a storm drain and nearly panicked over this beautiful animal trapped in a hole. And then I realized my mistake, and I laughed very loudly, and I named the fake swan Gerald. 

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