by Kathy Pon
In the months between moonless and blunt
bedrock, our waning parents declare their
intent to remain independent. We question
missed medication, immobility. But answers
are lost in confused footwork. We argue our
case, taut hands pressing shoulder blades,
bent on leading the dance. A doomed move,
we must defer to their desire to choreograph
an ending without a safety net. One of us checks
in, texting anecdotes to the rest. Care becomes
mental gymnastics in worry’s somersaults
or hard landings laid flat by their peril.
I am familiar with walking on Jello, wobbling
in the precarious space of no-plans and not-yet.
And while multiple voices can stir up frenzy,
my siblings turn into touchstones, talismans
bearing grace as we tumble in shifting sands.
In the wake of will, our parents’ path forward
is partial, the weight of our what-abouts—
immaterial. We can only stand by, catching
our breath while they dance with mortality,
faltering steps, their kids fading to wallflowers.
Kathy Pon earned a doctorate in education, but in retirement turned to her life-long passion for writing poetry. Her husband is a third-generation farmer, and they live in the middle of an almond orchard. Her poems have been/will be featured in Eunoia Review, Penumbra, Passengers Journal, Canary, and other places.