Now That I’m Sixty-four

I am sixty-four years old. I don’t have that many years left. Some would say, “You could have another thirty!” That doesn’t feel true to me. Or desirable.

I am sixty-four years old. I have to be honest. As sweet as life is — and it is sweet beyond words — I can’t believe that this beautiful, finite, hard and violent, loving and kind world is something to be held tightly.

I am sixty-four years old. I hold onto this life tightly.

But sometimes, I don’t.

The play of light and shadow seems to grab my attention quite often. And I forget to look to find what it is that is shining the light and casting the shadow.

But sometimes, I don’t forget.

And none of that matters, I guess.

Can I say it?

Dare I?

I don’t find living until ninety-four to be desirable because it’s too hard to live this life believing in the lights and shadows. Too tiring to believe I am someone who needs to be happy, liked, loved, warm, cool, young, smart, beautiful, loving, giving, perfect.

I have to laugh.

Stop believing such things, and then life won’t be so hard!

I am sixty-four years old. I don’t have that many years left. Some would say, “You could have another thirty!”

In the moments I am free of the need for an identification, none of that matters.

Can I say it?

Dare I?

It’s not that anything matters, or that it doesn’t.

There is another option: To be free of the need for anything to matter, and to love all the mattering.

I am sixty-four years old. I don’t have that many years left.




Carol Barrow
September, 2018