Nothing but fragments! Nothing. A chunk of this. A scrap of that. And always having the wrong tools.
It’s a mouthful of nails. It’s the needle’s eye. It’s that same dumb crowd standing out there gaping while you try to drive the spike through your other hand.
It’s a second rate job and they know it — our friends, the immovable critics.
Of course it didn’t work. It never does. The surgery. The spinal taps. The chemotherapy. That final gut‑wrenching struggle to stay alive. Reduced to a few feeble gestures.
It can’t be enough.
But my mind is an open grave at the edge of a steep ravine where the curved land falls away in a tangle of roots and branches, and my pen is a strange kind of shovel. I throw all of my weight behind it, lift all I can bear and hold it here . . . above you.
Then I let it fall. You taught me how. I let go now.