Getting There

at seventy-seven

Funny is age,

getting there day by day, 

without really noticing, then

wham-O! here they are. 

The years.

The memories.

There was nothing to warn me 

that this was coming,

that sense of sorrow that in my chest swells,

the ache we’ve all had just before

shedding tears from pains or losses,

though some might be shed later,

in their own time,

without warning or reason.

Gently it takes me into a place past all knowing.

I don’t know the why of it,

and I don’t try to know,

but Knowing does come out of it.

And there is sweet nostalgia,

rising, like softened anxiety, 

a five-year-old innocently looking 

into the world, a little scared,

visions of curiosity and wonder;

(the world works how?),

the excitement of all things new,

now saying to myself,

Oh, what I missed, what I missed.

Today I step more softly,

and remember there is joy all around.

The heart knows 

what the mind cannot understand,

how it feeds the soul,

how it balances the body,

stays reason and lets loose the wordless seasons,

opening blossoms— sorrow, nostalgia, and joy— 

each its own beauty.

I know my stories, the who and the how— 

joys, failures, tragedies— 

but the real stories, 

the ones I’ve never breathed,

only my heart 

knows best.

From: Getting There

Unpub. MS p. 39