light and lithe

i want to feel light and lithe. want to shed the layers required to fend against the bitter elements. want winter's frigid winds to end. want to loosen up the cinching in my shoulders. want to unclench my jaw and fists. want to feel warm breezes caress my neck and head. want to walk in the grass with no shoes. want to wear just jeans and tees.

i want to spring up and run for miles, if my heart and lungs and bones will still take me. i want to walk alone—no kid, no dog. give me wooded paths and fields and streets on which to thump and slap my feet. nothing is certain, but i want to try and see.

i want to feel light and lithe, want to float in the sun and read for hours, maybe fall asleep. want to be my only company. want to sip a glass of wine outside, watch the sun slip behind the trees as shadows stretch across a garden of green.

i want to get a damn vaccine. want to shed this inner angst and unease. want to drop pandemic rules which i've whole-heartedly embraced. i want to look into your eyes, see you face to face. want to gather—close—outside, not from six or eight or thirteen feet. want to hug until i'm breathless, dance until i drop, laugh until i weep (or pee.) want to see those maskless, beaming smiles dancing right in front of me. i want to party!

i want to feel light and lithe. want peace and quiet. want to release the weight of raising my disabled child, the kid who sends me up and around and upside down. and yet he helps me feel a sea of deep emotions—joy, sorrow, contempt, love, bitterness, despair, grief, pity—which make me feel so human and alive, though far from free.

Photo by Michael Kolster

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