They don't use an alarm clock to wake up.
The sun calls their joints and ligaments awake to arrange the aching bones.
Oo! Too long in one posture.
They share the sink in the bathroom.
He has an electric razor,
She has a rubber toothpick.
Breakfast is toast and fruit
and four pills and coffee, decaf.
She checks the calendar and
they talk to-do lists and appointments.
They talk about it twice,
because he is forgetting more and more.
They are glad to be together, still.
But she knows that life will change
now that only she may drive,
only she can make out checks,
only she knows where the turns are,
who to call, when to arrive,
how to survive
alone.
----
The above is based loosely on a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks, "The Bean Eaters," and my understanding of my grandparents' lives right now.
----
I have heard people tell me casually,
as they are getting up from an uncomfortable position,
or as they are squinting to adjust their eyes to the road signs,
"never get old."
But I have been planning to do just that, this whole time.
Next time, if I have the courage, I will respond,
"Would you rather I die young?"
----
In this country, it is a grave insult to call someone "old".
In this country, we don't vote for people with completely gray hair:
"What do they know? They're old."
What don't they know? They're old.
this is lovely.
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