Two and a half decades, and a cockle to show for it


Two and a half decades
of casting inconsequential shadows
on the forever droughty soil of a spinning space ball that feels
too grand,
too august,
too austere,
and too stiflingly scanty all the same.

What have you to show for it
but for a debilitating air hunger of a perfectly functional pair of lungs
on a heart wishing the pendulum would stop mid-air,
on a head begging for the synapses to cease fire,
on two feet carrying skin and bone barely standing as is;
the all too precious oxygen
of a heart wishing for one more year of swinging,
of a head begging for one more electrical signal,
of two feet carrying holistic cells with gazelle-like dignity.

Two and a half decades
with nothing to show for it
but for
the cockle my brother gifted me on the day when time ominously sealed the number 25 on my body;
carefully collected while still whole, shell blissfully intact, both parts attached to each other like an unbreakable promise to never let go no matter how seemingly fragile, always held together despite the apparently insurmountable threats of elements vowing to rip them apart;
precious treasure cleaned with utmost care of the sand nesting inside the opal shell
and made the welcoming home of unspoken truth:

I… do matter

Two and a half decades
with a cockle nesting the serendipitously silent truth that I am unconditionally seen and loved
to show for it.

Two and a half decades.
And while you’ll still find me casting inconsequential shadows on the lifeless soil of a spinning space ball,
My hands clutch the delicately hinged halves of a cockle whispering the undeniable truth of unconditional love.

Two and a half decades
and the two halves of a cockle
to show for it.