Early Signs

EARLY SIGNS

For Rebecca

The words I wrote began to shrinkbefore they reached the line's endpiled in an unreadable scrum.

I told myself it was happeningbecause I was writing on an unevensurface, soft surface, cramped surface.Because the spaces betweenmy notebook's lines were too narrowand the pen was too slender.Because I was tired, needed newglasses, was rushing to capturethe flow of thought. Because the lightwas bad. Because I was in my seventies.

But I already knew it was happeningwith any pen on any paperon any surface in any roomat any time anywhere.

I also knew my voice had begunto soften, become more breaththan speech, its tone flattened,pitch unsteady. Swallow, clearmy throat, try again. Must havea lingering cold, new allergies.Must be talking too much,not talking enough. It waslike the way my toes werebeginning to curl down, my strideshrink, my face become a mask. I was folding into myself, losingamplitude. On a hike in the woodsmy daughter, reaching out for mewhen I stumbled, found the wordfor me that I could not: Parkinson's.