10 or 12 Boxes

10 or 12 Boxes

I try to plan these things well, mete out my time
in cubes of space by design. I do not stack them,
I usually count them, and 10 or 12 seems good for the day.

But recently I’ve run out early in the afternoon or pushing the
load of lead in my brain to reach a desirable end,
I’ve used 20. Maybe 25. And I have more meetings
the day after, a granddaughter having a birthday, an airline
flight
taking me back home.
I have a son, a daughter-in-law, who know why I sleep through
a day or more,
But I still hate being the old man with a vise in his head.

In two hours, I need to apportion two boxes for an outing and
I’m again, a dozen behind. My feet will walk. They are not
paralyzed. I do not need to drive. I can recognize the venue.
I can answer the usher’s questions with a guarded mumble.
I can find my seat, and I would hope it was in the back.
I can sit, make small talk until the curtains opened. I’ve trained
myself
10 minutes at a time. Once the show starts, the music swoops down,
the player swarm the stage,
my senses will be overwhelmed. The sounds will push the pain
in my temples
deeper into my brain.

But I’m an adult. How can I continue to excuse my absence from things
that any other average grandparent would do without a thought. I agree
too readily,
and then the day is an avalanche; my heart races, my brain spins like
an old diesel engine, my hands quiver and my whole being wants to
lie down in a sensory deprivation tank.

One day I’ll have 9 boxes and can do 24. But another, after carrying
the burden days at a time, wanting to make my body behave, I have 24
and can only do 5.