And I keep coming back to it,
how miraculous it is that ever
I got to breathe—not just because
of the way I was brought into
my body, but how my body
grasped at the hemline of decades
and managed to somehow hold on.
And this thought that keeps pulling
at the edge of a poem is not
meant to make you feel bad,
or offer unsolicited advice, or
tell me everything will be all right—
because everything already is,
all right and more so, having
had my heart pumping this long
and gotten to wake to the trill
of our cat tempting me into morning,
having kissed my husband’s hand
smoothing the crease of my cheek
where still, I have sensation, and
been given a peek at light making
kaleidoscopes from a simple window
as day takes its final breaths. You see,
I have not been left to grieve alone
those things that have gone missing,
things like driving to other states without
worrying about spastic limbs, or holding
a screw to a hole without dropping it,
or lying my head on my husband’s lap
without this overarching ache. Whenever
suddenly I notice how my weight
settles against the seat of the chair,
against the odds, whenever I still can
type and watch my words materialize
(that, in itself, a miracle I’ve lived
to see invented), whenever I am granted
a micro moment, a minute, this
fabricated notion of how our
hours should pass, am handed
in a homemade box the chance to
to observe, to learn, to love, gratitude
reenters like a song, unexpectedly
remembered. How fortunate I am
to have touched today, each second
living in its own skin, these joyous
cells of a moment, the healthy ones,
the sick ones, and those that took bites
from my better psyche. I have had
the pleasure of shaking the hand
of decades, felt warm fingers hold
firmer than my own, been humbled
that in their strength, their great and
ominous strength, I ever had
the honor of saying I existed,
the astonishment I got to live.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt
Copyright March 4, 2025
Posted in Katherine's Coffeehouse
