Lavender, Part I
Today, age wraps around me
like an old shawl
pulled off the back of the sofa
for warmth against the March chill.
Left hip hurting again from the cold,
from office hours spent in a too-hard chair.
Mind needing Quiet— a respite
from the long hours of a noisy life.
The subtle, recurring symptoms of age.
More than even last month,
early February, where–
love flushed high in my cheeks,
days floating one into the other
and my complexion vibrant with hope–
I had a momentary reprieve,
suddenly quitting smoking
after 30 years,
after one kiss,
losing 8 pounds in the process,
in just one week, years younger
against all odds, I felt thrilled again.
One physical moment
in more than a decade.
Later, singing along with the car radio
in a clear voice miraculously returning
after only 72 hours.
Even you seemed younger last month.
Eyes flashing across desktops,
words with great levity, spontaneously
shooting across computer screens
with youthful speed and flare.
Your hair gleaming blond, like your son’s again,
and your incredibly generous smile
stopping both of us.
Greeting each other
in timeless days after days,
as if nothing could ever end;
we laughed more easily, even then.
This month already,
stress lines crease your forehead
and time is frightening
in the speed with which
it passes us by.
My own tension level
cutting off circulation to my brain now,
clearly not thinking clearly,
three weeks behind my own deadlines,
throwing a perfectly good Friday out the window,
and forgetting that I have no business
speaking to you
in the middle of a frantic work day.
The stress level is that high.
Just out of reach, and rising.
A test of our resiliency, our conditioning,
our ability to surmount all obstacles,
which, when measured against
the physical exercise we also have no time for,
says a lot for the power of prayer.
Somehow we get through.
Somehow we emerge on the other end
still smiling, a kind thought exchanged
with one another, showing respect.
A “thank you for being there
even though I couldn’t see you”
admission of faith.
A benevolent nod to those around us,
showing once again we have survived
another stressful turn of events.
Mastered the fancy footwork
of a high-wire act without a net.
If it is Work that ages us,
it is also what keeps us young;
the stress, demands,
responsibility for so many;
involved, connected, vital.
An endless dichotomy evolving.
At what age do we begin
to enjoy our lives?
Or will it always be this way,
becoming more complicated,
struggling still to make ends meet
20 years from now. Working
until someone steps forward and announces
that the self-employed
can never retire.
Form a line to the left, please,
and continue working.
I cannot imagine
Not Working anyway,
but it’s nice to think we might have a choice.
Might appreciate our earnings,
to share them, even,
with those less fortunate, less mature.
To enjoy time. This time,
our middle-of-the-road time.
The time where our bodies are rounder,
softer, more interesting.
Fleshed out and full of character.
Minds with opinions,
memories and stories to tell.
Experience, written all over us.
We have arrived, of course,
at a point in life of no return.
Years blending before us
in irrelevant distinction,
our only constant reality
being the next 24 hours.
And here I was, just last month
afraid to tell you that I was
four and a half years older.
In February, turning the same age
as the President of the United States,
which, considering the tender age
of his recent lover,
was a curious thought.
Would you and I even recognize
each other in a younger form?
Even be interested,
meeting back then?
Your body, slim and firm,
my hard and announcing presence
pressed against it
in a momentary, youthful thrill,
but then what?
I training so deeply entrenched
in military protocol;
my creativity only beginning to grow
restless, moving
from country to country
in search of a stage.
Instead we found ourselves
in the middle of the desert
in the middle of our lives
without a clue
how much road is left before us.
Wondering how long we have
before death takes us somewhere else.
Before we find
our well-deserved freedom;
before we question our desirability
to the opposite sex;
before we refer to ourselves
in the past tense.
“He was a handsom man, once.”
“She used to have a sharp and sexy
competitive edge about her,
a brilliant mind, a quick wit.”
Battalions of seniors
marching in the foreground
assure us that only the body ages,
that the mind stays young forever.
If so, then I take comfort in that
(knowing how I love your mind anyway;
could envision seducing it
all the way to the grave).
Perhaps winter has just taken its toll
on me, on you;
our indoor lifestyles
crowding us into corners
filled with paper projects.
Remembering only glimpses
of last spring’s wildflowers,
of you running barefoot through summer
in shorts and ponytail,
of me jetting across the earth
in a sand rail in autumn.
These images become keepsakes,
stuffed into a collection box of assets.
Our memories, as many as
we can cling to without appearing greedy;
our humor, healer of our souls;
and love, our most important asset,
our eternal salvation.
Long after our bodies have quit working,
it will endure.
Our minds, wandering, forever young,
never referring to themselves in the past tense,
ultimately merging with the universal mind.
Never once mentioning
anything about purple.
Women speak of wearing purple
as if it were a sign of old age.
The hint of lavender, then,
emanating from a hand-made sachet
in a drawer of lingerie,
gives me comfort somehow.
Knowing you only in love
with lavender at this point,
and purple being a long way off.
Regal, weighty, harnessed-with-age purple;
dark, ego-filled, in-your-face purple.
The purple you will never wear,
because you will not grow old,
preferring instead
the lavender years of your life.
The lavender you harvest.
The lavender growing in your yard.
The lavender you dream of wearing.
And, loving roses as you do,
the lavender-shaded rose you seek.
The lavender friendship quilt
You wish to wrap me in,
wrap my spirit in,
save me for eternity,
protect me from the aging process,
protect me from the winds of March,
hold me until we grow forever
timeless, wrapped in lavender,
wrapped in love.
Greeting each other in timeless days after days
as if nothing could ever end.
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