9:54pm October 7, 2014

"My, sie’s really let hirself go…"

My foot is cracked and bleeding from the cold
Yet there is beauty in the lines and cracks
My hands are gnarly, wrinkled, leathered, old
Yet every wrinkle hails unnumbered acts
They tell me to be pretty, to want more
“And more of what?” is always my reply
I’ve had a good long life, though I am poor
And poverty has been my shield and sky
I look into the mirror and I see
The greying hair, the laugh and worry lines
That come with living long and living free
For I have no consent to be confined
They look at me and feel I’ve disengaged
I celebrate surviving to old age

[This poem is also published on my main poetry blog, which has a comments section. Under the “Read More” cut here, is some explanation of this poem, although anyone who knows me well enough will understand already.]

By way of explanation: I find myself fiercely, desperately, wanting wrinkles and grey hair and all the other signs that I have outlived every prognosis I’ve been given. Other people fear those things, wanting to look young. When I am old, every wrinkle and grey hair will be a badge of pride saying “I made it.” I have only recently, since diagnosis and treatment for adrenal insufficiency, begun to allow myself to dream of old age again, and what a beautiful dream it is.