My hands are calloused and arthritic from heaving weights of cares, and show the heaviness of skin and bones encrusted with years of salt. Just like those of the fishermen, forever mending their nets, patiently re-knotting each torn hole, with the dexterity of their hands. Some days I see helplessness in their efforts,
just like the way I feel when I cannot hang on to my walker and start moving in slow steps, wearing my winter clothes. Tired and helpless! Perhaps things will improve, I think to myself~ but they don’t. Once I had thought that the dead might pay us a visit, step across the threshold of home and memories, and I would
feel the gentle touch on my shoulder or hear soft whispers of “hi, I am here,” and the room where I meditate would fill with the warmth of their scents, and I would know that they have come to visit me. But I realized that when someone died, the unraveling begins, and knew then that gone was really gone; like the beauty of
slender fingers, the fullness of youthful skin of hands, the holes in the fisherman’s nets, and like the heavy cares of age, slowly, very slowly, the knots come undone. Sometimes they are discarded, and other times we try to mend what is lost, from the nets of our lives.
©ZSA -November 16, 2014