When I was a Child

The trouble with chronic illness of any kind is that nobody understands it until one had to go through it. Yet, it is one thing that I would not wish anyone to go through, not even those who I cannot stand. The pain I am going through is kind of gushed out when I was least expecting it. This poem, or the one that I am calling poem, is written because of a writing prompt given in the memoir writing workshop I attended. Please read this excellent poem — Autobiographia Literaria by Frank O Hara which was the inspiration behind the writing prompt.

When I was a child

I carried books, diary and a bit of salt

And climbed the rose-apple tree

In the midst of the coffee plantation

I remember the blazing summer sun,

The sudden rain with hailstones,

The scent of jasmine that hugged the tree,

The taste of freshly plucked rose apples and raw mangoes,

Enhanced by the rocky salt.

And most of all, no one to bother me there!

Wander, read, write and eat

Ha the ideal life!

And here I am,

Wandering in hospital hallways,

Climbing not even stairs,

Lying in the bed, supported by cushions,

Counting steps and monitoring heart rate while I move,

Hiding from sun with the sunglasses,

Cautious of what I feed my brain and body,

Drinking salt water to keep away the dizziness,

Not even one book to add to my read list this year, a first in my memory

Waiting for the writing prompts to write

Where am I?

What have I done wrong?

A humbling experience that arrived too soon,

Just like the puberty which took away childhood at age ten.