Sweet Young Prime

I’m not tired of being old. There’s magic in it —  a chosen peace and quiet — an on-demand kind of living — no great expectations looming.
Oh sure, stiff bones aren’t always useful and they can come upon the owner unexpectedly and suddenly — evicting the more agile one without due notice as if it was her home all along.
Gray hair is lovely and the longer it gets the easier it is to pull up in a pony tail and get it off the face where it can be a nuisance — also saving beauty-making money for things more like honey to the soul — trees instead of hair dye or hair cuts.
I think I’ll be tired of not being able to get any older. That idea isn’t appealing at all and — it isn’t a good idea to fall, so more care should be taken when you are no longer feeling quite so bold.
Yes, young people look so plush and fine while they’re in their prime. They don’t know yet that everyone goes gray someday, down the line that seems so far away. They need to be told to save their memories, and their minds, as they go along because they can be young forever if they choose — in their minds — when they do get old.
The treasure trove of life’s experience is cause for marveling — even if there is no one to tell.
I didn’t get to be a singer with bright lights and awards and clapping. I didn’t want to. But I still sing and I sing real pretty in my mind and I clap.
As I sit in the sun and feel the breeze and watch the ants and birds and cats, I praise the space of time that brought me to be able just to be — and savor every quantum segment — dreading, dreading, dreading my ultimate quitting this particular space in time.
The young don’t know that kind of savoring. But they will, in their time, when they too have passed their sweet, young prime.

incredible magic of being

The Incredible Magic of Being by Kathryn Erskine

How To Remember

It’s a little bit windy and more leaves are falling — golden flickers in the lovely bright and beautiful sunlit, almost always blue skies of southeastern USA. There are a few gray and white clouds, suggesting a little more rain, floating lowly. It’s the last of the leaves and it’s starting to make me crave going home — with all that that might mean. Don’t ask me why. It might be Christmas-magic conjuring spells that call for lonely.

I’m reaching out, in my soul, for those I’ve known that brought that magic to me at the first of my being. I miss them — those who’ve mostly gone — one way or another. I wonder if he’s still alive — that boy I knew when I was seventeen. I want to go and find him or visit the city where I knew him just to see if that old magic can be brought back to feel another time. That city I made my own to visit when I felt I missed him more than I could stand — but I’m afraid to know the truth now even though I know my time is moving on and there might not be many chances.  For years he twinkled when he saw me if I showed myself or when he came to see me on his own — he missed me some too.

Home again, home again — where was or is that home?

I have barrels of tears from those days. They seem to make cycles. His friend’s father was a music man and his friend’s father’s girlfriend made sticky buns that smelled yummy in a little house made for squirrels under a big tree and we were among the drums speaking — it all made the falling in love easy. I wanted to live like that forever.

I never have known how to let a thing go gracefully. Sticky buns are sticky. It isn’t easy for me to make those happy moments so I store them for remembering like how to remember roses in December so December isn’t too bleak.

More leaves fall and rush off in wind to go wherever they go. I try to make the longing thoughts go with them but my feet are far too itchy. What to do with the cats and where to get a car that can make the trip is a trouble. Maybe I should just move there where the trillion memories live that were good enough to store for December. Maybe it won’t be December when I get there, but, after all, it comes again every year. I can be there waiting for the Christmas-magic that always seems to call for being lonely.