Now We Are Sixty
Apologies to A. A. Milne
Now we are sixty. We have fallen arches and charley horses, carpal tunnel and night guards. Arthritis, tinnitus, indigestion. Dangly arms and droopy jowls. We’re gluten-free, caffeine cautious, and sober curious.
We do not seem to care much.
I sleep like a degenerate queen, with many pillows propping the troubled parts and a bulky brace on my wrist. The bedroom reeks of menthol and eucalyptus. If Steven dares to ask a question at bedtime, the night guard makes me lisp and my attitude is all sighs and side-eye.
I have a bird app. Sixty is apparently for the birds.
I think too much about purpose. I assumed this would be figured out by now. Instead, I’m sixty without purpose. I worry that I do nothing, but am so very drawn to doing nothing. Drawn like a moth to the flame of doing nothing.
My father is a full-time job.
When I was ten, it was all about me. 1974, Slurpees and Top 40, a fat pony and Kathe’s farting grandmother. Little muscled body inhaling the world.
At twenty, I thought it was all about me, but it was muddied by the world’s narrative. A tale told by others about my body, my abilities, my rights. And, though I didn’t know it yet, the children were just around the corner.
