I see myself becoming old.
My closet is full of suits I don’t wear anymore.
Nothing I need to wear them for.
There are days when I stay in my pajamas till noon.
I think of my heirs looking at my wardrobe one day
asking “Can you think of anyone who can use these
or should we give them to Goodwill? ”
Or, “Would you like this tie as a remembrance of your Dad? ”
As I read the obits of the recently deceased,
which I took to doing a few years ago,
I compare their ages to mine.
Then there’s the arthritis in the hands and feet.
My left foot aches when I walk
and I suffered a rupture in a time-worn tendon not long ago.
I have more trouble lifting things and getting around.
I don’t jump over puddles anymore
for fear of the damage I might do coming down.
(No more kicking up heels for me.)
What will it be next?
There are the incipient cataracts,
and my hearing isn’t what it used to be.
I don’t think I need a hearing aid yet,
though my daughter disagrees.
Or will it be something unforeseen
like that ill-fated tendon?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Time moves and so do we. But looking back to how we lived our lives is something we can't regret- good or bad- for as we continue, we become wiser and wittier each time we function mentally and physically. The small pains we feel are but part and parcel of how much we have accomplished in life and they serve to remind us the golden days ahead of us. I love this poem, so very real.