sunny walk in the park sunday

My body is no longer my own. It is the canvas of time passing.

My spirit has always been the 3 year-old and the 83 year-old holding hands; each taking shifts to care for the other.

Now my body is slipping away from young. This is an unknown plane.

My body has been the same body for 10 years. Small additions of fat- I finally got boobs!- in womanly places to keep my jeans on and actually have to wear a bra (or do I?) :) The only changes of the young body.

Now? It seems the oils I rub into the skin of my hands never quite soak into the caverns of silky wrinkles from my wrists to my fingertips. The same goes for my face. I think this is the most difficult. My face is rebelling against the image I hold of my self in my mind.

The 83 year-old smiles at me as I infinitesimally change by the hours of my numbered days. She knows. She knows what I hope to understand. What I hope to allow to blossom.

Age.

Ancient experience writing finely on the papyrus of my skin.

The 3 year-old continues to laugh. To dance. To wonder!

Holding hands. It is simply time to give the matron the lead.

I believe in the promise of balance. What better, more breathtaking dance partners than two women. One forever child, one forever perfected in the freedom of death's winking.