Miles To Go

As I cross over the borderline of my mid fifties into the hinterland beyond, what will I find? I have never, until this moment had the feeling that I was old. In my mind I've been forty for fifteen years, only to wake up one day having entered foreign country. Like a sleeping passenger on a train, having crossed a border in the night. What rights do I still have? What are the bylaws of this land? Do I still get to dance around the house in my underwear? Do I get to be happy? Will I be valued? 

I don't know what's come over me, I've been writing poetry lately. I was always the child in my family who pleaded for another story, who lay awake in my bed, who crept to the bottom of the stairs to hear the grown ups talk. No wonder I had nightmares when I finally fell asleep. And so it is now. I'm not ready for it to be bedtime yet. Tell me another story. 

You're only as old as you feel, they always say. Inside there's a child wandering around. On the outside, my knees creak and my body grows weary sooner than I think it should. There are crowns on my teeth and battle scars abound from surgeries and accidents, accumulated over many a year. But inside, there's a child wandering around. 

Have I done all I came to do? Well, that's the question isn't it? Some I've known have done a lot and gone out early, in a blaze of glory, like shooting stars. Not me, though. I've only just now started writing poetry. A late bloomer so to speak. My life's accomplishments seem small compared to some. There's music still inside. 

Robert Frost said it best. I've miles to go before I sleep. And promises to keep. As new descendents come along, I find myself once again sitting on the floor, playing. The toothless smiles of babies, is there any greater joy? The little ones, they know the secret. That time is just a concept. They wonder not what their purpose is. Except to live and grow and cry and laugh.

What can I learn from them, these little messengers? That time is just a concept. It's true. And if you're at the crawling stage, then crawl, and when you're on your feet and get a chance to run, run like the wind. And laugh, and sometimes cry. But not for long. There's too much life to be lived. A band-aid, a kiss, and a cookie go a long way. That's for sure. 

And so these things I ponder as I find myself in this new land. Years ago, when I took a cruise, I found myself quite happily the youngest one on board, or nearly. A veritable fountain of youth it was. But I was, by far not the liveliest, and by far not the one laughing the hardest or the loudest, or dancing the longest into the night. 

What can I learn from them, these messengers from the other end of the spectrum? Writer Gay Talese, 77 this year, says he dresses up every day, not because he goes to work in his writer's garret, but just to say, “I'm alive today!” Hooray. Not a bad idea that. “Grandpa wore his suit to dinner nearly every day, no particular reason, he just dressed that way.” - John Prine. Maybe now we know why. 

There's a child inside wandering around. I doubt I'm alone in this. Because, as I have paused, as I am doing now, realizing I am not forty but fifty-six, before that, not twenty-seven but forty, before that, not sixteen but twenty-seven, the same thing has happened. I've adjusted. And learned to live life again. And whenever I take the time to compare notes, I find that others feel the same way too. There's a child wandering around inside with miles to go and promises to keep. 

© M.E. Rollins