by Piyali Nath Dalal
On a Rowing Machine, Fitness Crossroads Gym.
The machine is predictable, methodical, constant.
My belly hangs in between my thighs.
I feel lethargic, yet this is my first
quiet of the day.
The new baby kicks.
Silver haired women and men around me celebrate
Bruce’s 90th birthday. He and I often stand beside
each other during stretch and balance
class on Tuesday mornings.
I look outside. The Mexican bakery next door
has been awake for hours. A gentle baker,
perhaps the same each morning, lays out
crumbs for the little birds.
I don’t know what kind of birds they are. It never mattered
to me. Until now, when I become more like my mother,
and her father, with each breath: yearning
to take care of my garden and to learn
the names of the birds and the trees.
In front of the manager’s office, there is a sign.
It reads,
“Each day is a gift.”
photo credit: Ravi Shekhar, Unsplash
Farmer-ish 