FAILED ZEN MASTERS

It's a perfect spring day. An honest sun is doing 

its job, birds shun coyness in favour of exhibitionist 

mating rituals, sidewalks receive a bonanza of feet-claps.

I join a colleague for an afternoon walk. It's an ordinary 

hike around the office blocks, I think. I have good reason to. 

We talk about the weather, work, gardens and rustic collections

 scooped off thrift stores. We walk  briskly on the sidewalks, 

two middle-aged women putting their health first, getting their steps in.

And that's how the conversation turns to our mothers' health.

We fill each other in on the shocking news of their hospitalisation 

only weeks ago. Suddenly, we're no longer exchanging notes, 

we're singing a duet. We speak of our mother's billowy hearts 

and erratic breaths, about the ruthless indication ECG machines 

and angiograms lead us to. Towards mortality, our own, of those we love.

By the time we're done walking, tired yet energised, we both speak 

like we're Zen masters coaching disciples about impermanence 

and acceptance. Except we both know that when faced head on 

with those lofty words -- sudden phone calls from the hospital, 

tense hours waiting for a surgery to finish, nights bloating 

with sleeplessness, we're no older and none the wiser than 

five-year-olds crying over their losses -- imagined or not.