I wonder what I’ll be like
when I am an old woman.
Will I be strong and feisty and
active to the end of my days?
My cane might double as a sword
to battle the dragons of my imagination.
Perhaps a whack on the bum
of the young man whose pants are
flirting with his knees–
something I’d like to do today,
but I don’t possess the rash uncaring
of one who faces their final freedom.
Will I be the quiet and thoughtful
old lady that demands respect
with my countenance alone?
My spectacles upon my nose
perched to read the book held
in my feeble and wrinkled hands
yet able to peer over with a reproachful
warning that silence is sacred.
The only loud music deserving
my aged ears would be the
trumpets heralding my arrival home.
Will I return to a childlike state
with eyes vacant and unaware?
Too tough to take a sudden departure,
leaving my body for heavenly visits,
unaware of the stench of my
own waste in an adult diaper;
only being pulled back to my body
by a child’s exuberant cry of “Grammy!
We love you!” causing a smile to
form on my wrinkled face.
Will I look in the mirror and
wonder who is looking back at me?
Surely that wrinkled old woman
can’t possibly be me.
Inside maybe I will still feel sixteen–
carefree and wanting to dance
the night away, but trapped
within a body that refuses to stand.
I might wonder how I could
have possibly grown so old and frail.
I wonder, but not too much.
For my wonderful friend Mimi Foxmorton and her mom.