birthday | july 8

stack of cardboards
Photo by Suzy Hazelwood on Pexels.com

It’s your birthday

and there is only a year remaining while I have only one adult child. I feel the conveyor belt beneath me speeding up, nearly knocking me down at the instant it gains momentum, oh, the angle is changing, I’m being shunted downward at a clip now, soon the end of the belt will come. First, the money will run out, then my sanity (although my sanity may very well go first), and then my cardboard box–which I will chose over burdening you, my adult children–will be my grave. My convelescent home, my hospital bed, my casket: all of boxboard. What’s the use in resisting? My hands will grow weary trying to build a future from discarded packaging, and all for naught. At least the loneliness will be a comfort.

It’s your birthday

and I’m thinking of myself.

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