Growing Old

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In 13 years, I shall be the age my mother died. Then, when I was 33, I used to say… about her death… that she was young. Everyone said it. But I wasn’t sure then. I am now. Now I know.

She wasn’t old and – that’s for sure.

She didn’t look old.
She didn’t act old.
She wasn’t old.
She just stopped.

In 13 years, I shall be there
– not dead, I hope, but 63.

Children look at me, “Mrs.”, “Lady”, “Ma’am”, but I’m not old, and I’m not against being old, but in my head I’m still 29, 17, and 5. Can’t they see that?

In 13 years, I’ll still be 50, 29, 17, and 5. I won’t be old, I’ll be just as I am today, only more so. And now I know that years after that notable benchmark – the age my mother died – I may seem to be old, but inside I’ll still be all the ages I once was – only more so.