A lone leaf flutters in the tree, a lasting remnant of wind and rain storms passing through. Late November sandwiched in the middle. Gray, brown, unnoticed season.

Slow walk after rain, on glistening road. Slosh through soggy grass, wet leaves sticking together. How it feels, like the lone bird coasting in the sky. How it appears, like single leaf. The last surviving yellow dandelion.

Solitude punctuates. Silence accentuates. Underlines the position.

When it is you, the otherness of it stings more. When it is you, the affliction is a crying wound.

When the pain hits you, and you are the one next in line. The one next in line for the latest punchline, like a receiving line for a bowl of soup in a soup kitchen. You get your bowl. Your one.

When you get the note. When you get the diagnosis. When it becomes your story, your life, your past, your present, your future.

You become the one. You never thought it would be you.

When you run out. Of everything. Time. Money. Tears. Words. When you run out of yourself. And you become the one. You never thought it would be you.  

When wounds continue, unceasing. Like life. Like silence. Like loneliness. Like darkness. Like night. This world is the one, spinning cold, hurtling hatred.

What if you run out of life. When is the end? How long should one keep chasing an unknown end? When is the one life over. How long is too long, how much is enough, how much does one give.

How much life does one have left to live. How many days, how many ones, are left.

When you realize your one place in this world. When you know your aloneness. Your oneness.

You are only one. You are one among many other ones.

When you become the one.    




(the above was submitted for the Five Minute Friday prompt for the word “one”

(last two photo sources: unsplash)