On hearing this again, I want to explain calmly why it's not a compliment, But calm eludes me. I'm on fire to argue against slogans about growing old. Let others strive to be young at heart; let my heart be ageless. Youth is not wasted on the young; nothing is wasted on anyone. Defy my age? No, thanks. This woman's not looking for a fight. Or is she?
The cliche´s––as well as my antagonism––miss the mark. The stampede toward youthfulness bypasses a resting place that avails itself only to old souls.
I pause in my typing, trying to recall the word.
Memory fades in and out these days like reception on a cheap T.V. Experience teaches me to relax. The word will materialize in a minute or arrive tonight in a dream. My hands hover over the keyboard, the skin wrinkled and translucent. Thick blue veins course from wrist to knuckles. These hands rebut the pseudo-compliments about my appearance. They map a lifetime in ways my unlined face cannot. I hope to use them wisely from now until the end. Stroke the face of my loving husband. Dig holes in the garden for daffodil bulbs. Press into downward-facing-dog.
Such images cool my resentment and offer a senior's moment of respite. The missing word appears. The word is grace.
Set in My Ways