Small Machinery

I kneeled down to pick something up

and felt the catch inside the joint,

that grinding sensation,

the sound of something wearing down,

something that used to work

without announcing itself.

My kneecap moved slightly under the skin.

I could feel it.

I could hear it.

That small mechanical failure

that made me aware of my body

as something with moving parts,

with things that break,

with an architecture

that's slowly revealing its wear.

This is what getting older feels like—

not dramatic,

not a crisis,

just a small sound

from inside yourself

that tells you something

is starting to come loose.

I stood up carefully.

I stood up the way you stand up

when you're suddenly aware

that the ground is always there,

waiting,

that it's always been there,

that the distance between standing

and falling

is just a kneecap,

just a joint,

just the small machinery

that nobody thinks about

until it reminds you

it's failing.