the examination (a poem)

The examination

The last jar to pull off the shelf

I must look at it

. . . . at some point

It fills up the biggest spot of all —

And yet remains unexamined,

Untouched by my thoughtful eyes

All the other jars line up, tidy

Some pristine, all studied

Most worn smooth from my pondering

All clean, all familiar

Their stories and edges known

Worn from my calloused hands

From years of labor and care

Of learning to be more healthy

Of learning to be more whole

The last jar makes my heart pound

How many cracks will there be?

I squint my eyes till they’re almost closed

If my vision is blurred —

Will the cracks go away?

Or will I get lucky (for once)

And will there be no cracks at all?

My chest drums, fast and shakily

I don’t dare to touch it

Don’t dare to breathe

Don’t dare to face it

For I fear it will be like the last big jar

I had no idea a jar could even break

Over a decade ago, I grasped at it

Only to have it run, like sand, through my hands

Only to have them sigh and say:

She has lost her way

Sometimes I would kneel, trying to pray

But I always ended up with my knees cut, bleeding as I crawled away

I used to try and make the sharp edges fit back together, once again, again and again

(They don’t.)

And as the years slip by, the less I try

I stare up at that last jar

A light graze of my fingertips,

I do see some beauty

Perhaps it will last

(My ribs tell me otherwise.)

And so I do as I have done, as I was trained before:

I clench my way through and ignore it.

Instead of listening, I chase away the doubts

Instead of answering, I ignore the questions

One more light touch of the jar, and I walk away

Years pass, years of tossing glances at the jar

The ache in my ribs grows more numb

and yet somehow louder

… all at the same time

Now, it is today.

I take a deep breath.

My ribs, every bone in my body,

they scream at me

Without hesitation, I reach to hold the jar

grabbing it in my hands

Piece my piece, it begins to crumble.

Piece by piece, it is gone.

Like sand once again —

Only this time I do not stop it.

I will not kneel, or beg, or hide my doubt

I do nothing but notice:

as the pain in my ribs lifts

Lifts into some unexpected happiness

Tears, some of grief for what never was

but most of all: relief

As the tension in my middle softens

The fog in my head begins to clear

And at last, I am here.