Old Henry Vega**

Countless cantankerous, argumentative old men perennially dwell in a fog of bitterness and regret, endlessly replaying the battles of yesteryear—both on the battlefield and within the confines of their memories.

In stark contrast, Buster the dog lies sprawled comfortably on a threadbare rug, a rusty fishing rod resting in the corner like a forgotten relic. With a soft, playful flick of his ears and a wag of his tail, Buster radiates an innocence that belies the weariness of his master, who remains immobile in his rickety chair, trapped in a world of unyielding stillness. As Buster yearns for the thrill of the outside, his bright, eager eyes search for any sign of movement, desperately hoping for a romp in the sun.

Henry, burdened with creaking joints and the relentless pangs of arthritis, suffers through each day with a grimace etched on his lined face, his varicose veins becoming increasingly pronounced like the grotesque branches of a gnarled tree. In a futile attempt to reclaim his vitality, he dabbles in acupuncture, homeopathy, and osteopathy, but these remedies offer little more than a fleeting escape from his discomfort. Each morning, he reluctantly swallows an overwhelming handful of twenty antacid pills, a grim reminder of his deteriorating health and the number of days left in him.

As he stares into the distance, lost in thoughts of his fading youth, one can’t help but wonder who will inherit the remnants of his will. What would Grandma think of old Henry Vega now, as he morphs into the somber Messiah of misery, a figure encased in sorrow, overshadowed by the weight of his unfulfilled dreams?

~
Two minutes of perseverance
two minutes of curiosity

Seeking out life
returning with ingenuity

It's all about surfaces and thresholds
and winter hemisphere

Each of us wants so badly
to be that next satellite

Or at least be allowed
to dream we're a small dark spot
moving across the Sun's face
~

A warm wind touched my face.
I walked out into the open space,
I saw a blurry, fading horizon.
Somewhere, you are,
I am here, after a sleepless night,
Writing another reflection,
Tired like an empty battery.

I do not like the masks that shout.
The fight over who is right.
I do not want an analysis.
I touch the bark of the tree,
I hug the birch with my arms.
I see its white pages,
Written with irregular lines,
Torn, fluttering in the wind,
Which I cannot read.

Her eyes look straight into me,
They understand –
How well they understand me.
The rustle of leaves lessens the tension.
Autumn will come soon,
The summer wind whispers to me:
This country, this language,
These people, these doubts.

This is not blind luck,
This is your blessing,
Purple, rainy months, a fleshy heart,
Falling hair, joy when relief comes,
Crying into a pillow –
So as not to disturb another’s dreaming
About the so-called reality.

Bare feet touch the ground.
I tread carefully on the edge of worlds,
To be both here and there
With my integrity.
I am everything and nothing.
I am gestures, epilepsy,
The belief that I see human thoughts,
Inconsistent with what they say.

Blue, sun, and somewhere you.
How good that you stayed.
When everyone was saying:
She is different,
She talks to ghosts.
You stayed, showing me
Your true face.

I fold your absence
into paper birds
and let them burn
before they fly