Lemonade

I sit in therapy now

and talk to my younger self.

But did I ever consider my older self is somewhere right now

talking to me?

Not just twenty or thirty years older than me,

but thirty thousand years?

My beyond-ancient me?

My eternal me.

Millennia of gathered wisdom—

Is she telling me this will all be ok?

See, I saw her flying

above me and before me

as I ran down the trail.

We were face to face—

as I ran forward, she floated backwards.

She was blue and silky,

cerulean beauty, so playful.

What was she saying?

Pontea saw her too—

the empath walking a pug with

bulging crusty eyes

and whose scrotum hung so low

it grazed the tips of each blade of grass—

She saw the cerulean too,

above me and surrounding me,

in the dog park.

Before that, I saw you as you

aged into your ancient self,

the pale figure that rose from your body—

slow and floating, exhausted and free,

fully formed and informed.

Knowing.

Did this ancient-you

calm the heart of the then terrified-you,

back at your diagnosis?

So, is my ancient me

telling me comforting things right now?

Is my body receiving some sort of particle waves

that only my heart can grasp?

An unconscious enabling to hear with my ears,

see with my eyes,

and understand with my heart:

that this agony of living without you will end,

and I, in the end, will be ok?

That the lemonade I make

of each lemon-of-a-day

will not be wasted, but will quench the thirst of many—

including myself?

Let me get there sooner than later.

Vast silky blue and joyful, floating.

Fully formed and informed.

Knowing.