Over the hill

I made it.
Up the huge hill by the cemetery
twice.
On foot.
At a reasonable pace,
running.
On my right the markers of the mothers
and others laid to rest, for the long
haul.

After lunch
our last meal together
before she returns south
my mother wonders out loud-
if death is when we
just get to revel
in the moments
we missed enjoying fully
when they happen-
like Marcel feeding the ducks
yesterday.
I was nostalgic
about that time with him
when I was walking by the pond alone
this morning...
Why didn't I enjoy it more then?

That cemetery on my right,
and the airport
over the hill
and to the left reminded me
to keep my wings on-
so that I don't find myself
at rest
too
soon.

Wings for what?
That's what I wondered
as I ran up that
hill of promise
for the second time-
and it was oddly easier then.

What are all the
what ifs I could accomplish
if I remembered to:
Write.
Write more.
Laugh.
Find the love.
The grown up kind
that I am
am
am
ready for now
I insist with each lunge
up that steep
incline
ready for now
that the buds are
anxious to unfold-
and the little black feathers
curling around the drakes'
landing wings.

Running up that hill
the cemetery on the right
with all the dead leaves
begging at the
fence to be let in
felt like a promise
I was keeping to myself-
to move.
To take up space
while I am able.
To not settle into the
grip of small fear
to move beyond those too.

Running past the hospital
I imagined those just
beginning-purple, brown and new.
Those nearing the end of their
medical records, of all
that will be written about them
here.

And I run faster.
Neck strait.
Feet sure.
Breath bold.

I am not old.
I am not anything
that I don't choose to be.

I am one day closer

to this up and
over the hill
me.