Every day they exercise their God-given right all of their various maladies and twinges to recite. Over coffee in the morning and martinis after five, they nod their heads with wonder that they are still alive.
Over pork with wine sauce, they whine about their bladders. They complain about dizziness. They cannot ascend ladders. Obstructions in their bowels and needed hip replacements seem not to curb their appetites for listing such debasements.
From head to toe, they tell the rest each disease and malfunction, discuss medicine and herbs, consider extreme unction. They moan about their neck aches and complain about each corn. This relation of their aches and pains amounts to senior porn!
As though proud of each new symptom, they relate them with some glee, hoping to receive some newfound sympathy from me, but in fact I’ve heard all of their ills time and time again, and I think that it’s their telling that is a royal pain!!
My mind is turning derelict. It often wanders on. While I am still in need of it, I discover that it’s gone. My thought processes aren’t uniform. They come and go at random. Will and concentration no longer come in tandem. It never ceases fascinating me that what was once a certified ace student has turned into a dunce. I know it is the fault of age and yet I often ponder about this vagary of mind that sends it over yonder when I have need of it at home. I find it most distressing when common words are wanted, that my mind now leaves me guessing.
When I was just a little sprout, I liked to boss my world about, but now that I am old and gray, I’m merely keeping it at bay. Howbeit that life I used to rule when I was a kid in school has come to be the boss of me— determining what I hear and see?
One-by-one, each faculty just seems to be deserting me. I find I’m often in the clutch of a world that doesn’t listen much. I’m less intrepid in my demands as joints and organs, bones and glands furnish surprises, glitches, quirks. It’s sufficient if my body works!
When I cough, I sputter, and when I sneeze, I spray. My pet pastime is muttering. I’m trite in what I say— these candid confessions representative of all the ways that I’m imperfect—the reasons for my fall.
Once I was a prima-donna—unique in every way— put up on a pedestal, protected from the fray. But as I aged, old father time reduced me with his cleaver. My mind grew vague and spotty. I fell victim to hay fever.
All the glories of the past vanished over time. It made a simple mortal of what was once sublime. So, fair warning to young lassies with your skin like peaches. One day you, too, will fall into Father Time’s cruel reaches.
The prompt words today are pet, cough, representative and unique.
I’m held captive by your wrinkles, dear, enraptured by your ripples. I love your freckles and your moles and all of nature’s stipples. They are sacred landmarks. When I find one that is new, I must give thanks to nature for adding more of you.
Sometimes with the darkness around us rich and deep, my mind goes on a walkabout as you lie asleep. The roadmap of your body is the terrain that I pace— the ravines and the gullies and your face’s fragile lace.
Some bemoan the changes that nature brings about, and they bring a different beauty. It’s true, without a doubt. But as I trace each special feature of your body and your face, I’m reassured that nature’s carving instills a deeper grace.
I once basked in your bonfire, and though no one quite remembers when we last caught fire, I’m warming fingers at your embers. Slow steady fires that survive, snoozing ‘neath the ashes have the same mysterious lure as winks obscured by lashes. Passion need not flame to warm the cockles of one’s heart. What was a wild onslaught at its very start may settle down to a warm glow or a steady smolder. Loving hand placed over hand —her head upon his shoulder.