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The first complaint is from the arch to the big toe, a dull 

mumble that awakens calf muscles not yet ready to rise. 

The lower back is next; a right jab, then a left, but bladder 

is insistent, “Move, move, move!” Together they roll sideways, 

wobble upright (knee clicking) and stumble, stagger across 

the floor. Piss flows; lungs croak a reminder that a spray 

will ease asthma later. For the moment the tourettes tic

tiredness monitor rests. And the eyes can’t read any of this.


Yet, at this age it’s not too bad. Developed more for comfort 

than 5k splits, we can stride across the miles, or labour

in solid bursts of energy. We can laugh, gameplay, throw out ideas

that look to the future, compete with quick quizzers, wrestle

a wordle, and wonder at the complexity of life. And still, her body

snuggles into mine, curves shaped perfectly for one another. 




©  Craig Muir 2022

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