I remember,
as a child, how
I would have to
wait years, many
years it seemed,
for the day of
my next birthday.
Now each new one
arrives only
a month or so
apart and I
would rather they
slowed down again.
I remember,
as a child, how
I would have to
wait years, many
years it seemed,
for the day of
my next birthday.
Now each new one
arrives only
a month or so
apart and I
would rather they
slowed down again.
Inside
every
old man
is a
young man
trying
to work
out where
the hell
he is.
Things fall apart
the centre will
not hold. Nor will
the stomach, lungs
brain, feet, liver
back, kidneys, skin,
or any other
of my organs.
I was not
aware of
taking my
first breath and
I will not
be aware
of my last,
but all the
others were
precious.
Looking back,
corridors
of my mind
are lined with
all of the
people
I have known
at length
or briefly,
and I can
see again,
like an old
movie, with
pleasure or
pain, in whole
films or
single frames,
all of their
faces as
they once were.
The sign at the
Supermarket
checkout proudly
said “new winners
every day”,
which is a much
better deal than
we all get at
the Life checkout.
Writing a
memoir is
a life’s work.
It has to
be earned
by the lines
of your face,
the wrinkles
of your hands,
the night fears
of your sleep,
the weariness
of your brain,
the failing of
your body,
and finished
just in time.
Old age is
being dropped
into a jungle
by parachute
and trying
to survive
using only
your wits.
Whether I am
seven and
a half or
seventy
five, the I
who looks out
of my window
is the same I,
no matter how
he appears to
those looking in.
Sometimes I
meet someone
from my past
who tells me
something I didn’t
know about
a common friend,
or enemy,
or event,
that completely
alters my
memory of
that person
or history.
Are all of
my memories
fungible?