the leaves fall softly outside in the brisk breeze. I huddle in my blanket, stretched out on the sofa. I can see out the window from here; I can watch the browning grass as the last remaining birds attempt to find sustenance from the hard, dry earth.
I shiver and pull my blanket higher, resting my head on my pillow.
Moving my arms causes the pain to spike from wrist to shoulder and I try not to wince. Outward shows of pain are not encouraged here after all.
The pain in my shoulders radiates to my back and I wish wish wish for a comforting touch, a gentle massage or just a warm hand between my shoulderblades. Anything to take the white throb away for a while.
How I long to be up and out. How I wish I could just get up, go somewhere.
But the cold is in my muscles, bones, blood.
My legs are leaden, and hips creak when I try to move them.
And don’t you dare touch them, else I will cry out.
The front door opens, colder air blows in with the arrival of the young ones home from their day.
Breathing deep, I pull off the blanket and stand up.
Hiding, always hiding, the sharp stabbing spikes
up the legs, down the back around the neck
I smile and push back the wince again
hiding always hiding
I begin my day.
May 15
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