Perhaps I carried more weight than I could bear.
Perhaps I mismanaged the weight,
or I’ve just tried to move ahead too quickly without watching the path.
After each fall, I rise a little damaged,
a little bruised,
a little shaken by the misstep.
My knees in particular, the key movable joints to my personal progress, are scraped, swollen, and sometimes stiffen in protest.
Let’s rethink this, they tell me. Take a minute before going again.
After each fall I feel, not just in the flexible bits, a reminder
to look again,
to slow down?
After each fall I am embarrassed.
Who saw me this time, I wonder and glance to my sides.
Everyone can tell my planning was inaccurate,
my experience not enough,
my trippings are all public.
After each fall I consider the discomfort of the next step.
What if I didn’t take it?
Is it possible to stay still, instead?
To never risk another fall?
I can cheer those who pass me; I have before and will continue still to cheer others on.
Must I continue?
The road beckons.
It is full of bumps and holes just as the path to this spot.
I will walk it,
I will work up to a run,
I will likely fall again.
This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post, where writers and bloggers gather together to share their versions of a completed sentence. This week’s prompt was “This fall, I…” which I thought was “Each fall, I…” So, there’s that. Just tripped in front of you all, again.