Zebra Seeking Spoons

I used to think a comeback

meant returning to who I was before—

full speed, full strength,

unbroken.

Chronic illness taught me otherwise.

It taught me that comebacks

can be small enough to fit

inside a single afternoon.

My life derailed slowly,

like a train forgetting its tracks—

appointments replacing plans,

pain replacing possibility.

For a long time

I waited for the grand rescue:

a cure, a fix,

a miraculous turning point.

Instead, hope arrived

in glimmers.

In the first morning

I woke up and didn’t feel defeated.

In the day I folded laundry

and still had energy left to live in.

In a walk to the mailbox

that felt almost ordinary.

Glimmers do not shout.

They whisper.

They say:

try again.

not all is lost.

you are still becoming.

My comeback is built from these—

from good hours

stitched carefully into hard weeks,

from gentle victories

no one else can see.

It is messy and uneven.

It is not a straight line.

It is a body learning

a new language for living.

Some days I make progress.

Some days I only survive.

Both count.

Because every glimmer—

every softer moment,

every breath without bargaining—

hands me back a small piece of myself.

And slowly, patiently,

I gather them up

like scattered tools

and begin again.

This is my comeback:

not dramatic,

not perfect,

but persistent.

Lit by tiny lights

that refuse to go out.