When I’m Old

When I’m old I’d like to go there, she said.
A twinkle in her eye.
Looking at an ad, or something.
She was in her eighties.
And she wasn’t old yet.
Not yet.

I smile at the thought.
Then I smile at my white hair, sprinkled here and there.
And at the lines that formed around my eager eyes.
Well, I hope I get the chance to be old too.

I hope I live to see more grey hair, more wrinkles.
Testimonies of many challenges, many laughs.
I hope that one day, experience transpires through wise eyes,
a knowing smile and some mysterious scars.

Every day is someone’s birthday.
And every day someone resents getting old.

But that ache in our back, our knee, or our shoulder; it’s adventure.
That tiredness in our muscles, our movements, it’s life fulfillment.
We are getting old, for we are living.

Another day. Another year.
We are living.

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