Pattern design, I owned, once upon a time.
I perfected cross-hatch and font and ornate edge,
paragraphs and thin grey lines, and color en agitante.
Perfect is gone now.
My pattern is blur and strobe and all fall down.
I will not hate my disease.
But when do I say goodbye,
as I strew and falter and shake away?
goodbye draw anytime,
goodbye draw one-handed,
goodbye draw from any angle,
goodbye legs in sync,
goodbye walk up stairs without hands,
goodbye walk up stairs undizzy,
goodbye walk down stairs with certainty,
goodbye natural conversation,
goodbye timely wit,
goodbye being heard,
goodbye dance unnoticed,
goodbye walk in quietude,
goodbye stand in silence.
Shaken away, stolen, gone, all those me things.
I will not hate my Parkinson's.
I will just pretend, pretend a fine, imperfect pattern.
I will not spend my final wide-awake days
memorizing what remains,
raging at ugly evidence,
or take it lying down, covered up.
But late at night, hoping for cessation
of hand and leg, my mind a mess, failing to sleep,
I say goodbye to gone me, going going me,
me who was once like you,
unseen and splendid.
2007, collage by oblivious me, before the primate of dysfunction knocked me out