Fine

Photo Credit: lil artsy https://www.sarahtrummer.com/

For all of the chronically, invisibly ill people I know and have yet to know, I see you…

We say we are we fine because we are…

 some days.  

We say we are fine because some days, our bodies don’t hurt, and we notice, and we’re happy.

We say we are fine because some days, we indulge in warm sun, good conversation, or decadent coffee, and we enjoy the hell right out it.  

We say we are fine because we bought the ticket; we took the trip; we lived with a little intention and hope,

and it worked, so

we say we are fine because we are…

some days.  

We say we are fine because we must…

some days.

We say we are fine because at home, small hands and sepaled souls need our minds, our hearts, and ourselves to be whole or to at least pretend to be. 

We say we are fine because we must at least try for one more day,

one more hour,

              one more minute,

one

more

second

to cocoon our beloveds in soothing “It’s okay”s before Nothing….

Nothing is okay.  

We grieve us,

              for them, and

we say we are fine because we must…

some days.  

We say we are fine because we lose ourselves…

some days.  

We say we are fine as we dematerialize into grainy memory, particle by separate particle, remembering the turbid waves upon which our broken life-vessels have ridden.

We say we are fine while our mist-ified selves mingle in the fog of grief - scenes of a changing tribe - the sands beneath our feet running back into the ocean and off to we know not where, while our own feet, planted beneath us, sink deeper and deeper into heavy sand.

We say we are fine ‘til the ocean threatens to fill our pneumonia-scarred, extubated, clot-filled, half-dead, yet somehow still inflamed lungs.

We say we are fine while we breathe in all the fog all at once, like it’s all one air, and

we say we are fine because we lose ourselves…

      some days. 

We say we are fine because we aren’t…

some days.

We say we are fine because we know that if we waver even for a picosecond, for that one-trillionth of a beat of our bruised and oozing hearts, we will crack open, and our over-medicated, under-nourished, synthetically-bonded bones, sinew, and viscera will burst through the diminuitive crack evoked by our wavering, and will stain the floor you stand on. 

We are Scotch-taped together, and 

we say we are fine because we are overwhelmingly, excruciatingly not…

some days.

We say we are fine because we are… 

some days.   

We say we are fine while death floats, fine as diamond-dust snow above us, kissing our cold, dry, indelibly tear-stained cheeks as it softly falls.

We say we are fine as we sit, ear to the crack of the whispering-door, absorbing murmurs of wholeness, loving welcome, and a melting away of our shattered earth vessels along with our very worst selves…

We say we are fine as our fingers intertwine with our ever-present shadow, knowing that through the comings and goings of all other beings in our lives, this one, this dark and lovely partner, will be with us ‘til and through the end, so

we say we are fine because we are…

some days.