The Body Slowly Degenerates

Snéhal Amembal

I stand by the sink, snack packet in hand
fingers refusing to move
I can feel your impatience rising
as you, all of 20 months old, begin tugging
harder and faster on my pyjamas.
Something as simple as opening a packet
shouldn’t be so difficult. Hands shake, tremors raiding
my body like merciless tyrants.
You are now screaming I want, I want it
give me give me! I panic.
trying to locate a pair of scissors, I pick it up
with shaking hands and somehow manage
to pry open the packet. I whisper words of reassurance
to you as I get hold of a baby bowl.
Snacks rain down like confetti on the kitchen counter
As I finally collect some into your bowl.

We settle on the rug to read your favourite book
I read the first page and slowly
reach out to turn to the next, yet
fingers don’t listen to what I am asking
of them and they turn pages at random
Skipping the very next page that has your
favourite scene etched onto it
You immediately realise as displeasure slithers through
slapping my thigh, folding your arms, and saying:
Not this! Not this!
my cheeks burn in shame, unable to even read
to you without becoming acutely aware
of the disease that’s slowly ravishing my body.
Then suddenly something magical happens
You deftly turn to the correct page, smiling up at me
I resume reading the book from where we left off.

It’s time for our evening stroll now,
a time of day that you look forward to, but I don’t
dressing you up is hard, so hard
The buttons, the zips, the laces; they all snigger at me.
The belt in your pram adding to the insult
Yet every day I persevere to take you out
in the hope that the fresh air will replenish
this emptiness that has possessed my soul.
My steps are small, my gait a tad unsteady,
the lack of swing in my right arm masked by your pram
to the outside world I appear to be a regular mum
out for a walk with her toddler.
Little do they know the minutiae of our day
while seeking solace in their ignorance
I walk towards the sunset in hope
that tomorrow will be a better day.

The Science

The poem is inspired by my own experience of living with Young Onset Parkinson’s Disease and the challenges it brings with it when it comes to raising two young children. The condition is degenerative in nature and the main symptoms are to do with loss of motor movements over time. This essence of entropy is therefore reflected here.

The Poet

Snéhal is a freelance writer, poet and blogger based in London with her husband and two toddlers. Her writing primarily reflects her motherhood journey, memories of her own childhood and the essence of everyday moments. Her debut collection Pause, inspired by the covid 19 pandemic has been recently published. She also reviews books authored by writers of South Asian heritage on her blog Desi Lekh. Snéhal has an infectious laugh and a very loud mind. She believes that observation might just be her superpower. You can find her on Instagram @momtherhustler.

Next poem: The Great Thread by Alex Byford