Daddy used to say babies that cry too much
are unhealthy. Bodies trying to speak
the only language they know:
something is wrong.
Throat raw, vocal cords abrading—
a baby always afraid of strangers,
crying through the night.
No philosophy, no self.
Just meat failing, already.
At fifty-three he broke three ribs
water skiing—
bottom three ribs fallen
from their connection
like chicken wings in a food fight.
Pain negotiable then, a threshold
he could cross and recross.
Body obeyed.
We thought that was strength.
Now straightening his curled fingers
is unbearable.
Contracting like burnt plastic bottles,
contents expunged without warning,
container warping inward.
He tries not to complain—
old toughness now just silence.
Forgive the wasted health,
reckless years when pain was still
a bargain, struck and honored.
Forgive the body for its honesty—
it told us from the start:
I won't fail you until I do.