Awaiting Compost

The original heading for this post was going to be “Plateau,” but then I saw that first line of my last “poem” and think it’s better.  This entry will touch upon several topics, so either bear with me or go away.

PROFILE : My current (former?) profile says I’m not through growing yet. I’ve re-thought that.

When after an uncomfortable (well, some of it) thousand-mile trip you finally arrive at the end of the line only  to realize your ticket was for the wrong destination, what then?  Is it your imagination that someone whispers “Gotcha!”?

Despite what the scientists predict,  my first organ to go was my heart. It turned to stone. My last surgeon said, showing my daughter my extracted mitral valve, it was hard as a pebble from a brook.  On to another, more current metaphor for me, while awaiting compost:

I am lying on a vast bed of empty ice maker cubes (remember, from the old refrigerators?) Trying to be helpful, I’m sure, someone puts such a tremendous pressure on me (steamroller?) that my body is now comprised of hundreds of cubes, almost like building blocks. Now I’m really ready to compost.

BUT WAIT JUST A F***ing MINUTE!  Building blocks! Like in days of yore, before my post-partum deression at 81!  Whee!

 

 

 

About Nan Mykel

At 79, I was just about to stop keeping a journal, but that felt like accepting that growth was finished. I don't want to be finished, yet! I'm 80 now, and struggling to communicate with you, if you'll come and set awhile. P.S. My how time flies! I'm 82 now.
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