Raising The Bar

Cold wrapped around me early on
in life, the cold of shyness, of doubt,
of second guessing.  A shrinking violet
to be sure, a skinny boy, afraid, unable
to look anyone in the eye, even when
I became an adult, and even when I
joined the military.

No matter that death threatened
at eight years old, when penicillin
became my mainstay for one solid year,
and this thirty six pound hospital survivor
regained his health.  Yet, the eye contact
eluded me, as did the sureness
associated with most fledgling lads
embarking on those teenage years.
I admit some of it was in the genes;
I would see Dad in bipolar throes
(back then it was less understood),
but it would frighten me to see Mom
have to put him in the shower
to “snap him out of it.”
Yes, it was an unsteady house,
a fragile house, a house longing
to be a home, but failing instead,
failing as an ice cube fails to remain
solid in the kitchen sink in June.

I knew somewhere there was a bar
of assertiveness, a bar that lessened the doubt,
the second guessing, the self-incrimination
and even the self-loathing.  Turns out it was
higher than I imagined, higher than I could have
dreamed I would ever reach.  Trauma helped
raise it, like Vietnam, like so many wounds. 
Both good and bad have gone into the now,
wherein I hold onto this bar, sigh with
gratitude and soak in the wonderful
and interesting sights.

Oblivion seemed, at first, inevitable.
Now, however, I long for life’s
treasures at this new height.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
Merit Badge Winner
7-4-16