I am on the fast track to becoming an elder.
I’m not entirely sure I had any choice in the matter. Wasn’t this always the plan?
Mere years away from getting to sit down in a proper chair for family photos, being served first at dinner, being offered a hand up and down.
Before you know it, I’ll be saying cryptic phrases like, “well, no dog ever howled at the moon without a good enough reason”
In turn, the youngsters will whisper that I’m wise, senile, annoying, hilarious, cute, or just plain ol’ old.
I won’t mind.
The backs of my hands will tell my age: roadwork of veins, puddles of pigment, papery pools. “Ah, yes, this is a liver spot, this is an IV scar, another where I cut myself with a butter knife.”
I will sing and strum and pluck guitar string and perhaps my eyebrows. And I will hand out clippings from house plants and warm slices of quick breads, fresh out of the oven.
Is aging a career?
I will slide gently into myself even as I rise through the ranks.
Boss of self. VP of me. CEO of this whole damn corpus.
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Rhena Writes 