This morning began with scolding,
accusations that I was late,
that I took my own sweet time.
I said I didn’t like her either,
words sharp, heavy, unguarded.
The bus carried me forward,
a woman waved me away,
I gave her a look —
not to vanish,
but to hold my ground.
A jacket sat on,
a seat taken,
yet still mine.
The course began with awkward silence.
Attendance signed,
theory tested,
a mistake revealed:
shock to the heart, not the brain.
A truth corrected,
a skill learned.
CPR clumsy,
hands heavy,
laughter nearby.
Her words followed:
“You didn’t concentrate.”
But I stayed.
I tried.
I kept going.
Messages slipped in —
one steady line:
“See you on Monday.”
Another, brief but gentle:
“Take care.”
Small anchors in a sea of noise.
And the afternoon waits with bandages,
not only for wounds,
but for days like this —
to wrap what aches,
to hold what breaks,
to soften what cannot be healed in an instant.
I am not perfect.
I am not invisible.
I am here —
overwhelmed,
seen,
still showing up.
