At seventy, it was celebratory,
sort of…
We were in awe of years traveled
and friends outlived
sadly…
grave markers and obituaries read
with shocked expressions
footsteps treaded, hiked, or run
uphill, both ways, perhaps,
were behind us.
We partied then, stepped into the golden years
wisdom, respect, and veneration
somewhat
knees complaining, but happily eager.
But then
Seventy-one crawled out of the dust bunnies
the ones under the end table, photos displayed
Admiration lost in rolled-eyed expressions
of intolerance and, unfortunately, sarcasm
when internet crashes or the electronic
responsibilities of unholy paperwork demanded
too much, we asked direction
shamefaced
When did that tango turn into a rocking waltz
at someone’s wedding? Clawing, holding on
and another unknown gift recipient’s thank you card.
Our walks together have become more peaceful,
pleasantly
the arguments we cherished are left forgotten
with neighbor’s and great-nieces’ names.
Seventy-one is a commitment
to something slightly different
a muted, gray morning or an empty afternoon
Our laughter is real
Our fingers touch, a cello’s stroke of the bow
Our eyes meet in deeper, more meaningful stares
We hear the wind’s whisper and the owl’s cry
Holding on to the book
Not wanting to finish that last chapter.
we skip the news tonight
and throw seeds into the wind.