Counting Spoons
This morning,
I open my eyes to find only seven spoons
lying in a small, dented cup by my bed.
The world asks for twenty.
One spoon — just to sit up.
To blink against the ache in my joints,
to gather my breath and convince my heart
that gravity is worth the fight.
Two more — for a shower.
Steam curling over stiff shoulders,
the heat loosening nothing,
my hands heavy as wet towels.
One — to get dressed.
It takes all the grace I have
to pull fabric over skin
that burns at a whisper of touch.
Another — for breakfast.
Lifting the mug,
stirring the spoon,
pretending the taste matters more than the exhaustion in my jaw.
One — for a phone call.
Because words weigh more than dishes,
and smiling through pain
Keeping up appearances
is its own kind of heavy labor.
By noon, I am out of spoons.
The day still stretches,
hungry and demanding,
but my hands hold only air.
I borrow from tomorrow.
I always borrow from tomorrow.
And tomorrow will wake me
with fewer spoons in the cup.
Source: Counting Spoons
