R. eally A.lready
I.M. Not Jimbo
Sometimes I look at my hands, fingers jutting from knuckle like branches from a corkscrew willow. As they bend like a rusty hinge that never saw the glory of 3 in 1.
I can’t help but think of Gram. Her hands and fingers so twisted and swollen that just the sight of them conjured a brilliant phantom of pain in my own green hands. Yet after nearly ninety decades she would still get down on her knees and yank those persistent weeds from the garden, an enemy that she could see a fight that she still could fight.
Her sore exhausted hips sounding off as firecrackers as she struggled to the ground. by then she was ripping out prized irises and other beautiful plants convinced they were weeds but nonetheless she still fought through the pain to do what she was driven to. I’ve been facing this, on and off for nearly thirty years. Only as this level has been reached can I begin to grasp the amount of pain that poor amazing woman must have felt. A feeling akin to someone drilling directly into my knees with the dullest of drill bits. Waking to realize that some bitter hobgoblin had individually pressed each digit to anvil and struck down with hammer as I fitfully slept. The click finally came, that aha moment.
My inspiration to fight is strengthened by several but none more so than that 5 feet of fight that could conquer nearly anything.