I’d imagined myself older
and sitting somewhere
and people coming to talk with me
and maybe I was giving a bit of wisdom
and maybe I was simply quiet
and, like now,
maybe I was putting pieces of paper in front of them and saying
make a picture of it.
And it occurs to me tonight
that I am older now
the memory from long ago
and I feel my alertness, the same as it’s always been,
awake and looking out these eyes,
same as at
six years old
when I sat in the closet and wrote on a
red plastic and working typewriter
on top of the upside down grocery store cooler
whose Styrofoam eventually cracked
from being stuffed with my dirty clothes
awaiting their time in the laundry.
I made many white things pink in those days,
and, ever since,
I’ve preferred other people not wash my clothes,
but having had a hand in it lately,
I’m more apt to say yes now,
now I’m older.
It is not the age that means something
and certainly not the number,
though there must be something auspicious in the double digit,
like the repetition of my initials,
given as a gift of good fortune by a parent for a child.
And I have been blessed.
And so why not take up my spot on that porch,
and move when I feel to move
and be in the space between the sounds
to give a hand to those for whom the sounds are God
are objective truth
and rest there
until nothing. There is no until.
This is it.
I am on the porch, I am sitting,
there is a fan and there are
itchy patches beneath my breasts
that have been talking to me most of the day,
and maybe yesterday too.