Between Breaths

The therapist orders me to
breathe.
     I hold
my breath, she says.
My face turns
red
when I walk, she says.

I ignore her.
Can’t waste the energy
or breath. It takes all my
strength to move.
I concentrate
struggle, lift
my legs. Right    then
left. One    step    at a time.
Focus    on the chair
at the end.

I ignore my shuffle,
the slippers’ soft rustle reminds
me of my son when he visits, softly
turning the pages of his schoolbook. Wordless
questions swim in his eyes. But I
have no answers and offer
a chocolate kiss.

No. I must focus
on the chair.    Not
  these legs attached
     to a body
growing    more    life
less every day.

     I never
thought…
young and active,
what might wait
to swallow
my days, my life.
All too soon, I
found myself afraid
to go to sleep
not sure what will
still work in the morning,
not even sure I’ll remember
to breathe all night
without the therapist
ordering me,
breathe.
I have to
remember
to breathe.

Linda Cronin