On Getting Old
By Reva Griffith

I think of the women who went before me,
So wise and understanding.
Yet why didn't they tell me how it would be?

And now they're gone,
Grandmas, mother, aunts, friends,
Leaving me without those final words of wisdom.
Just up and died.
And here I am, on my own, getting old.

They didn't tell me about the failing energy,
Or vanishing words —
There one moment, gone the next.
Or the fickle memory, quite dependable in the past,
     That drifts off into the nether when I need it,
          Or the embarrassing spells of tippy walking,
Or the plethora of ailments that lie in wait
To jump out without warning,
Or how difficult it can be to rise gracefully from sofa or chair,
Or how tricky driving a car has become,
And "they" honk at me for driving slow.
Or how out of control I sometimes feel
Trying to put all these things together
To appear normal.

Upon reflection, perhaps they tried to tell me
And I didn't listen.
For, now when I complain about my memory,
Young folks say they can't remember anything either,
They say they get tired too,
And that people honk at them on the street.
"But," I say, "this is different. . ."
And they don't listen,
They just smile and pat my head.

I believe I may have done that too.

Reva Griffith
February, 1999