Ode to Becoming Able

Ode to Becoming Able

Told

not 

to bend 

at the waist 

beyond 90º,

I cannot tie 

a shoe, clip a 

toenail, scratch 

a low itch

after hip 

replacement.

I dismay the cat —

my foreign smell,

clumsy motions.

With tools
— a long 

shoehorn, 

a long-handled 

gripper, 

a plastic scoop

controlled 

by ropes —

I can pull on 

jeans,

pull up socks,

slide into 

Dansko clogs, 

slip out of 

the house 

at dawn

to climb 

the wooden

steps

to the well house,

the cat stepping, 

leaping,

beside me.

Quarter mile,

half mile, 

six weeks

before I bend 

cautiously,

clumsily tie

the red-suede 

shoes.

Soon enough,

limber from yoga,

from walking 

two dozen

miles 

each week,

I can’t tie laces 

due to

a rebuilt thumb.

The cat stands off, 

stares

& turns away.

I practice

minuscule

circular motions

— reach, press, hold —

the pain

in my hand

so much worse

than the hip

from four times

as many nerves.

Months

pass before

the cat sleeps

leaning

against me,

heavy weight, 

purrs

when I toss

sleepless.

Mornings

his paws knead

the blanket

— nails long, 

bowl empty —

prompt me

to remember

what

I used to do.