After all, what is this business called living about?
Each week The Sunday Whirl invites writers to write a poem or short prose using some or all of the “Wordle’s” 12 words. This week it is:
I could ingest
the whole of life in a mere 70 years,
all the scars and laughing,
the chimes of childhood,
the arrival of my own children,
but then, again, it would seem unholy
to sit down and try to consume it all
in one sitting.
It is no plain or simple thing,
this life, which is no silent type, either.
Though life is lived alone, ultimately,
and the path may be a lonely one,
it still weaves and meanders,
straying a little here, dawdling there,
and then speeds up at the end.
Life sighs. It takes deep breaths,
and tends to pale on the whole.
Life’s arrival is gloriously unremembered.
For a while we know so little, and then
so much. Then such time
is spent trying to retain what we have.
Then recollect what we’ve lost,
and slow it all down. Cherish what is left.
Then acknowledge, with heaviness,
that which was known all along, but
blotted out from memory, returns,
unwanted, and which is:
that all of it must go
As once ingested,
last Thursday’s meal from soup to dessert was probably a good one,
but, my goodness, can anyone recall it now?