Post the thirteenth. Shuffling.

I have memories of my grandfather walking slowly in slippered feet. More still of him in a wheelchair, feet shuffling on carpet as the chair was pushed along.

He complained of something being caught in his throat when I visited with my sisters. Emotion stuck, causing an old man to cough.

He has been on my mind of late as I shuffle through the house in my uggs. Walk slowly through the supermarket. People passing on their hurried way. I envy them their quick pace. I notice the hustle of people now I cannot join in. It will return, my hustle. But for now, it is stuck, like emotion in the throat.

Tablets and toast for tea. Washed down with water and the bitter aftertaste of uncoated pills.

My shuffling feet. My slow witted knees. My thick, unyielding fingers. I talk, I write, I walk and I wait. My hustle will return. But while I learn of patience, I think of a grandfather and complain of something being caught in my throat.

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