Tuesday, February 22, 2022

If I cried, would the angels hear?

I put on each new morning,
Like a clean shirt:
Crisp and fresh from the drawer,
Creased, yet not wrinkled.

I pull it over my head, and for a second,
It's summer and I am camping;
Waking in our golden tent,
Smelling canvas warming in the early sun.
Hungry for my breakfast of pancakes and sand.

As my head erupts from the collar,
My magic mirror catches my eye,
And laughs.
It shows an old, gray geek in a worn t-shirt,
The word "Survivor" shouting from its face.
Hair tangled as a tumbleweed.
Fingers too stiff for buttons, waving about
For balance, seeking comfort from a bookcase.

I pause as my memories and my years
Catch up with me.
I sit on my bed.
I cough, shake my head,
And wonder:
If I cried, would the angels hear?

Mick McKellar
February 2022

It is both curse and joy to remember how it felt to be young, and to relive those feelings and sensations, only to rediscover the wear and tear caused by the sands of time.


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