Twenty-year-old sweats
cut into shorts
and a worn shirt from a 10k race
hung on me from sleep.

The morning I knew
deep in my bones
that I could die, would die, will die
was ordinary.

Almond butter toast,
kettle for tea,
tunes, dancing, putting away dishes,
I built the day’s base.

Procrastination
would have been best
but “Change air filter” was on the fridge
and I set to task.

The task was routine.
A million times
I have climbed that wooden step-up
and changed that filter.

Leading with my right,
step, slip, whoosh! THUD!
My bones and flesh crashed on the hardwood,
reverberating!

Radiating pain
Inert, confused,
the breath of God stolen from my lungs,
through terror, I rasped my mantra:

“I need help! I need help! I need help!”

The ordinary
dissipated
the morning I knew in my soul
I could die, will die.

Fear overcame hope,
“Will I die first?”
“Am I old now? Is this when life turns?”
And in the background,

kettle boiled, tunes played, and help came.

First up, clothed, at her
sewing table,
she was putting pieces together
poised to quilt wholeness.

THUD! “I need help!” and
in a moment
her presence was guiding and grounding me
giving me courage.

The morning I knew
mortality,
I slowly, haltingly raised to a stand
under watchful arms.

The day God’s breath left
my slammed body,
I feared irreparable brokenness
yet rose encircled

within gratitude
for conscious life,
living love, ancestors who endured,
and this, my body.

The morning I knew
in ev’ry cell
I am born mortal, will die mortal
began routinely.