by Christopher Walsh, written Wednesday, 8/9/2017
I start this when tired.
An afternoon ago, I lifted, gripped, and hauled a fraction of the goods
Contained in what had been the home of friends.
Soon, they'll live elsewhere. For now, their lives are boxed up.
I helped to box up.
Several times I told myself, "Many hands make light work"
(While wondering if that was a Shakespeare line)
And I thought back to move after move after move I did,
As a Navy brat, then as a resident of multiple coasts — college in Oregon, family in Virginia —
Then as a seeker of work in Oregon — somewhere, it's a big state —
And, finally, come 2001, committing to at least a city. Hi, Portland.
Moves, of course, didn't stop. Not for me, not for others.
I've done it again, making other people's move proportionately easier
And earning aches in usually non-aching parts of me.
My body did what it should.
Sweat dripped and seeped,
Pinning sweat and trash particles on my skin;
Soaking up other water so that, eventually, I'd pee;
Thankfully accepting when I drank more water, from the tap, cupped in my hand.
It also accepted a lot of caffeine, from my one other drink.
(I could have had a beer; I decided, this time, no.)
After packing, after getting onto a bus to home,
I was tired to the point of forgetting what day it was.
I've been tireder: tired to the point of what feels like an out-of-body experience,
Disconnected from gravity but not from aches.
In those later cases,
Arms feeling normal again,
My head feels normal again, too,
Aided by knowing: I'd helped.
© Christopher Walsh, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christopher Walsh (chris_walsh) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.