By David Roth
© 10 August, 2004
(Stroke – day 21)
The word is there
Right on the tip of my tongue
Refusing to jump off.
And I know what that stick is called
You know – the one with the plastic bristle thingies
Sticking up on the end of it
With the dollop of mint flavored white stuff on the end.
I know that I will stick it in my mouth,
Rub it around my (what are those things called?)
Spit it out and then rinse.
I know what the thing is called
At least I think I do
And I think I remember it from before,
But there is this unnerving hesitation
As I sit here
Trying to form the word
I watch your chest rise and fall
The constant rhythm of somnambulant breathing.
I feel a closeness to you.
A warmth that suggests love, passion and compassion.
And I reach over to brush the strand of hair from your face,
Thinking, even as I hesitate, how much I do love you
Whatever your name is.
Words, ideas, concepts, people
All once as familiar to me as, well, as something.
Something I can’t quite place.
And even as I do place it,
I hesitate:
The word,
Stuck on the tip of my tongue
Refusing to jump off.
