“The Rusted Sword by my Bedside”

The rusted sword by my bedside,

Once held, what feels like ages ago, by a warrior with a heart of steel,

Now sits unused collecting dust.

That warrior with calluses from hours of disciplining his body and his mind,

Who fought and fought till his body wouldn’t let him fight anymore,

Now wears braces on his hands on the days when his body screams in protest at everything that he wants to be.

He wears knee braces through the night,

Paces himself throughout life,

And takes 3 weeks to recover from building a desk over a weekend.

That warrior who used to fight till he couldn’t fight anymore and then kept fighting,

Can’t fight anymore.

That soldier who vowed to never give up,

Had to give up to live.

That man who said he’d never give up his sword,

Gave it up to a car trunk,

Then a closet,

Then a bedside,

Where it sits,

Where it rusts,

Where he died.

He died in the moments when his roommate asked him if he needed help lifting his cast iron skillet.

He died in every moment when he had to say no because he just couldn’t anymore.

And in every moment of weakness that tore at the dregs of his strength

He remembered that sword and the broken hands that can’t wield it anymore.

But then those broken hands picked up a pen,

And the weight felt familiar,

The calluses fit, 

And his swings became a stroke.

His dance with a blade became a dance on a page,

A dance of heart and hope and every feeling he felt when he picked up that sword.

And broken hands found strength to fight again.

The rusted sword by my bedside,

Sits across the room from the weapon that made me fight again.