Nothing in Common
by Freya Manfred
Sometimes I feel I have nothing in common with anyone.
I shamble through the day, dragging my knuckles in the grass,
and each new hour with each new person is a cliff I can’t climb —
yet I know I’m alive now — inside a song as deep as forever,
that stretches to the infinite future and the bottomless past,
connecting every place I’ve lived or nearly died —
and I shouldn’t worry so much about losing what’s most precious,
my simian balance, shaggy fur, bold fleas,
my plentiful fingers and opposable thumbs,
and my curious, glowing, ape-like eyes that still shine
with radiant chaos, wondrous animal calm,
and so much love, for everyone
Yesterday my son brought the grand kids to visit, and the Labrador grand dog, Camden. She slept on her dog embroided lamb skin, ate cookies and food, drank from her personal dish, and had toilet time outside. Knew she was loved and, despite painful arthritis, kept beside me all day, faithful to Nana.