How quickly I swing out of bed,
exercise and take a shower,
read the news and toast my bread,
and all the while, your life narrows.
It seems unjust—when you’re not well—
that I still go for morning brew,
weed the garden for a spell,
blithely stoop to tie my shoe.
That I move lightly down the stairs,
take the grandkids to the park,
change a lightbulb, wash my hair,
and yet you struggle with the dark.
My routine remains unchanged.
I take for granted, plow on through.
Your whole world is rearranged,
facing things you cannot do.
I’m aware life doesn’t stop—
the gardening, and stacks of dishes—
illness just won’t freeze the clock.
Knowing life goes on—to me—is
realistic, yet unfair;
for this, the guilt I feel is real.
The cards we hold, the bets we dare
to make, they’re all about the deal.
