Blame The Sneeze

Not a poem, I remind myself.
Just a small note to the season.

It begins quietly every year.
A hint in the air.
A softness that carries more than it should.

Then suddenly, without ceremony,
the sneezing starts.

Jolie and I looked at each other this morning
mid-sneeze, mid-surprise,
as if we had both been tapped on the shoulder
by the same invisible hand.

“Well,” I said, reaching for tissues with calm efficiency,
“it seems we’ve been selected.”

It came out in three consecutive sneezes,
which felt like a firm argument from nature.

There is something almost impressive about it.
The sheer commitment.
The way a simple breath becomes an event.

Inhale.
Pause.
Achoo.

No rehearsal. No warning.
Just full participation.

A few years ago, I wrote that “Not a poem” about breathing.
About how we forget it, overlook it, treat it like background noise
until it insists on being noticed.

Today, breathing has opinions.

It whistles slightly.
It hesitates.
It negotiates with pollen.

And suddenly, we are students again,
learning the basics.

Inhale gently.
Exhale slowly.
Try again.

There is a strange kind of gratitude in it.
Not the loud kind.
The quiet kind that sits beside inconvenience and smiles anyway.

Because even in the middle of this
there is something familiar, almost comforting.

The rhythm of it.
The shared experience.

A perfect system.
Highly efficient.
Slightly chaotic.

And then, without trying too hard to name it,
the absence became present.

Terry.

He used to sneeze like it was a full announcement.
Four times!
A declaration to the room.
There was no mistaking it.

You could set your watch by it, almost.
Or at least pause your thoughts.

And today, in between my own sneezes,
I find myself listening for his.

Not in a heavy way.
Just a small, passing awareness.

Like noticing a chair that used to be occupied.
Still part of the room.
Still part of the rhythm.

I smile at that.

Funny, the things we carry forward.
Even in allergy season.

Especially in allergy season.

Because this, too, is part of living.
The inconvenience.
The shared glances.
The quiet memories that slip in between moments.

The air is busy right now.
Full of things we cannot see
but certainly feel.

And still, we breathe.

Not perfectly.
Not gracefully.

But faithfully.

Shall we call that enough for today?

I think so.

Jolie has just sneezed again,
which feels like a clear closing note.

I will make tea.
We will sit by the window.
Watch the trees do what they do, unapologetically.

And tomorrow, if the air insists,
we will begin again.

Inhale.
Exhale.
Bless you.