The Pillbox Polka

 

The morning starts the way it always does, with my stiff‑kneed rise from bed,

the house still holding its breath

as if waiting to see

what shape I’ll take today.

I cross the kitchen like a man

walking through last winter’s snow,

slow, deliberate,

testing each step

before trusting it.

The pillbox waits beside the coffee-maker,

a small, plastic box and calendar

that knows more of my future

than I ever did of my past.

I open it, and the week unfolds:

Monday’s aches and pains,

Tuesday’s hypertension,

Wednesday’s midnight bathroom trips,

that never quite stop.

Medicare has left its messages again,

stacked like wood by the door,

reminders, warnings, offers,

all insisting I’m older

than I feel on my best days

and younger than I fear on my worst.

So I take my morning handful,

a quiet polka of necessity,

each pill a step in a dance

I never meant to learn

but somehow know by heart.

Outside, the world keeps its own rhythm:

a bird testing the air,

a truck banging down the road,

the sun climbing its familiar ladder.

And I stand there,

holding my coffee cup,

thinking how even this,

the creaks, the calls, the careful counting,

is a kind of living.

Not the dance I dreamed of,

but a dance all the same,

and mine to finish before the music stops,

as best I can.