The Mimic
The warnings were there,but I heeded them not.
Aging, I told myself.
The storm on land meant
pushing myself to keep moving,
the constant scrolling for breaking alerts,
the yard needing grooming,
the house needing cleaning,
the people I had brought together
needing the person I wanted to be for them.
It was mine to do,
all of it,
or so I believed.
The wave was growing,
each increase in size signaled
with physical symptoms I pushed aside.
The wave rolled through my right brain,
washed through the synapses,
short-circuited the connections
between brain and body,
a cortisol wave of depression,
but not destruction,
not a tsunami but a surfer’s dream.
Unable to ride it, I crashed upon the shore,
disoriented and weak,
the wave with a name of its own,
not caused by age.
They tell me: manage the stress,
as if naming the cure is not itself
just another wave to ride.
Poetry by Melinda K Zarate
Read 9 times
Written on 2026-09-14 at 18:36
Tags Migraine  Health  Stress 
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