“How old
would you be if you didn’t know your age.”
Golda Meir
Golda Meir
A dear
friend’s mother died this week. She was ninety-five. I only met her one time,
but I heard she had a good long life.
She lived
in the retirement home where another friend’s ninety-three-year-old mother
lives. My aunt lives there too. She’s going on ninety-eight. And I still see
her as the beauty she was in her thirties, forties, and fifties.
I wrote
the poems for Paul Blieden’s book of photography, The
Emerging Goddess. I dedicate this poem to these ladies. They are in my
heart.
Aging Goddesses
The crones – our mothers,
grandmothers,
aunts, old friends, and
teachers –
walk arm in arm in pairs
each one supporting the
other
on the old cobble-stoned
streets.
They are squat, stout
with veiny legs and thick
ankles,
their bare feet in flat
sandals
showing jagged toenails
or clothed in thick hose
and wide oxfords.
Some move slowly
barely able to walk,
clutching each other for
support.
They are perfectly coifed.
Their hair short and
bleached
hides their age
but not too much.
They wear suits
with skirts always below
their knees.
Jeans just don’t do.
They talk as they walk
closely together.
Almost in a whisper
they solve the world’s
problems,
impart their age-old
wisdom
or decide what they’ll
cook for dinner.
They wear their age
as an example.
Softly, simply, elegantly
they are our muse.
They don’t hide
but rejoice in their age
They thrive in their
togetherness.
That’s what counts.
They aren’t alone as they
walk
They walk together
as we follow behind.
