For more years than I can remember I have started each morning by weighing myself. My day progresses based on what that number tells me. Have I progressed, regressed, avoided the consequences of an ill-timed snack by exercising? The scale has become my oracle and my tyrant. Tomorrow morning I will begin my day without a number. This is a foreign, unsettling experience, but it is time for me to begin living without a perpetual early morning assessment. Many years ago, I wrote the poem below. Finally it is prescient.

No Weight

There are no numbers left

to look at,

there are no weights

that can measure

the success of me.

There are no numbers

to step up to

or step into

or

step on to.

I leave this morning

without a scale,

a weight

a measure,

 a shadow that

I keep looking

over.

I have none of this

today

just a reflection

and the suspicion

that grief

is a fluttering thing

too light to sink into

anymore.

“No weight!”

I hear myself saying

and I want to

turn back

and step onto

something

get aboard

and wait for

the pin

or

the digital reading

to size me up

one last

time

for old time’s sake.

But I can’t make that move,

won’t raise my foot

to step up

into another number.

I am facing the

world

without a number

and this is the most unfamiliar

place that

I have ever been

this simple

space between

the scale

and the front door.

I may be huge

out there,

I may be small

I may make an imprint

or—

not at all

but I will not

listen to

another

number line

or some other

media voice

trying to take

measure of me.

I have a choice

and I choose

to live

in uncertainty.

The fat of me

and the thin of

me is

just fine with that

slender thought.

I’ve got a world

to live

and I’m not

waiting

                            anymore.