It’s one of those days: I woke up to my knee not working the way knees should (straighten, bend–how hard can that be)?
Last September, when my knee first went south in this most recent of knee grievances, I wrote this poem:
We Still Could Have a Future
Dear Right Knee, please do not let me
down–yes, we’ve had a troubled past.
I’ve asked much of you–those hundreds of pliés
and the ill-advised leaps, landings that went wrong.
Yes, I’ve subluxated you, surgeried you,
bandaged and braced you, jogged
and hobbled and taken you for granted.
Now, dear Knee, I hear you screaming at me.
For I have been lax in my obligations,
have put you through 10,000 steps daily.
I’ve been stingy with the ice and ibuprofen,
have relapsed on my therapy
and live in a house with three stories.
I hear you telling me to move, telling me to sit,
to quit–and that would be too easy.
Dear Rebellious Right Knee, come back please.
I don’t want to replace you.
If it’s a small comfort, it’s still a comfort. Now… to get down the front steps to the car.