Thursday, June 8, 2017

the shining balls

A big bolt of sunlight like muslin golden and warm has been unrolled on the soccer field. It was irascible like the fir trees swaying in my face. I wanted to go back to bed as it had been hot and difficult to sleep. Insomnia is a plague of insects in your head.
But now I am up. Soon I will pick up mum. I will take her for lab work.
My right finger is swollen like a tree branch with a gall. Also my right shoulder hurts. Before I did anything else I soaked in a hot shower to loosen everything up. Maybe this is the beginning of the end in terms of flexibility. I might have to do yoga to loosen up the arms.
But this did not stop me coming here to write. The bolt of sunlight that was laid out on the soccer field made up for the insomnia, the swollen finger, the hurting shoulder and the pale whisking of the fir trees with their whole bodies tsking at me and pointing fingers for the late hour of rising.
Anyway, mum. Then the laundry and the mopping of floors. The meals for younger boy who is asleep.
No job yet.
The friable hours of our lives.
The simple swirl of clouds like a streak of white chocolate in a marble cake.
Friends of peonies beginning to speak in red and pink.
Life.
All the hours of a life that we juggle until they all fall down.
No one really knows when the fall comes of the juggled hours.
The day before yesterday my mother asked me if she thought she would die first or my father.
It's like a genii out of a bottle these questions.
I told her I was not god.
It's not up to us.
But I guess when you are in your eighties or really any age, sometimes you wonder when the juggling of the hours of your life will stop and everything will come falling down.
The boast of my writing is that it tackles hard things that I don't want to think about. My parents are old I tell myself but not that old.
Life is not a juggling contest.
It doesn't matter who is ahead in this business.
Nor who is falling behind.
One day you wake up in the morning and simply go over the shining ball of light in a soccer field and wonder when the shining balls in the hands fall down.
One day I must stop writing about morbid topics like this.
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