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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