Chronic
It sounds like a dream -- to lie in bed
and watch tv, to read and rest. Me at fifteen
would have imagined it heaven, me the girl
who spent summer days in bed, reading
one book after another after another.
It is different, when you have no choice
in the matter. I wake, and feel ill. It is difficult
to get dressed, difficult to come down a flight
of stairs, difficult to make breakfast. One hour
of rest for fifteen minutes of mildest exertion.
Somehow, the children are dressed and fed
and even walked to school. Two hours of rest
in exchange. This body is barely functioning.
This body is a betrayal. And even this brain,
normally reliable, is faltering. Is blank.
Entertainment is not entertaining. I have
no heart for wit or laughter, no constitution
for difficult topics. It is all too much. I drift
and wait to get better. Impotent fury simmering
as my life slips away, stolen, moment by day.