… is excruciating. watching one another stumble and have anvils dropped from above. any of us makes a fine target for whatever causes things to fall and break. bones break, hearts and minds. we heal and scar and favor the pink flesh– and sometimes we poke at it, repeatedly, to remember we are alive.
it is terrible to watch our parents wither before us– and surely unimaginably worse to look on our childrens’ wounds and misalignments. we grow crooked against adversity, or out of sheer perversity, we bend, we knot, we grow onward. our shape defines itself against an indomitable wind or wall. we wear out, run down, expire. there is dread in the undoing, in the unknowing– vulnerability in the face of– what? vulnerability itself, not even knowing. or only half-knowing. suspecting and second-guessing ourselves in circles, routines of preparation, edifices against the softness of the belly.