I am old past reckoning
I am tree rings, countless
I am the broken spine on a book that has had many past readings
I am wrinkled and I am frail, fingers sore from thousands of handshakes, millions of embraces, dozens of piano played notes.
I am 89
I am 32485 days long
My cast shadow droops and drags behind me, as tired as I. Weary of shading the ground I walk.
I have been wife, mother, maid, ruler of the roost, comforter, past my prime, sore, weary, temper driven, emotionally drained.
I hold earth worms on the tops of my hands, blue- fat- age extenuated. Years before I would pull them out of the ground, dirt under my fingernails.
I forget and yet I remember all my past mistakes, all my short answers, my moments of regret.
I am tired and ready
I am a force of nature ready to wind down
Burrow into the ground
Sleep with the rest of my generation
I am old past reckoning, your reckoning
You cannot remember the old times, vintage times, the good old days
And now my good days are old
I am old past reckoning, but I still smolder
Underneath the wrinkles, underneath the worm veins, the speckled skin, the droops, I still burn. My deepest parts hold a flickering match; I hold my breath because the slightest waver will snuff it out.
To you, young skin, fresh joints, light laugh, I look like a bag of bones. I look overworked, prone to snap, weak.
But if my memories were a wall and my experiences were a moat, you could never touch me. Never climb the wall of Aunt’s faces, Uncle’s funerals, thousands of shopping carts, grandchildren’s first smiles, millions of steps.
But sit down by me, hold my worm hands, maybe I will tell you what ‘past reckoning’ feels like.
