Poetry | Disability | Recovery

My Body Keeps Making Plans

Muscle memory never received the news that my life had changed.

Photo by Frankie Cordoba on Unsplash

Without consulting my brain, my hands still reach for the same cup. The left one forgets it has been disconnected. Together they attempt impossible partnerships, answering the ancient question about the sound of one hand clapping.

My feet still believe they can dance without thinking, race down a flight of stairs, catch themselves before gravity remembers.

In dreams, I carry two suitcases through an airport, setting them down only long enough to hand my ID to the TSA agent.

Photo by Alexander Mass on Unsplash

When rain comes hard, we run for the car.

At the mall, we carry fresh sheets and shiny cookware home as though nothing has changed.

The sheets know better. They wrinkle around a body that turns differently now.

The cookware waits for two steady hands to chop, mince, dice, stir, sauté — preparing a meal everyone will remember.

And every time balance disappears, my body still believes it can catch itself.

Perhaps that’s what muscle memory really is — not memory, but loyalty.

My body keeps making plans for the woman it once knew.

Somehow, without planning at all, we found another life.

We found a voice. We found music.

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© Victoria Ponte — 2026.