WHEN A SNAPPER CROSSES THE ROAD
What should I do? I see the soggy green/gray lump creeping the macadam too slow to survive for long. The surge in me, to aim and end the duckling eater’s life, is a short-lived but palpable surge. My Disney style justice is dismissed but heard from nonetheless. Shall I pull over and assist? This turtle is as ill equipped for this stretch of road as I am ill equipped to aid in its conveyance. Should I reach with fingers or toes to something I know can extend its neck and sever me from parts I hold dear? The ever-present missionary in me has spoken and is silenced. In fact, what I can do is slow down and give wide berth. I know this creature is a danger, but never more so than me.
Plot your graph and measure your curve.
When someone wants to take the easy way out
I condemn them for wanting ease
and fail to register that they want out.
I hear a whine when in fact it’s a cry.
A challenge is rarely passed up by the able bodied,
but must be foregone by the injured.
Carried from the field is no personal victory,
not a goal for sure.
When I would rather watch than play
I need to check for wounds not inflict them.
It is not natural for me to sit in the stands,
but accusation is never the way to get me on the field.
Suit up when I’m whole and hide when I’m not.
Absence is a fallback position for the fallen
I have to help myself to get back up.
You are reading selections from Sober on the Way to Sane and More Lines From My Life by Sherrie Theriault