Zero through Ten
When
hollyhocks grow along the fence,
Carol and I
make a dandelion chain that
goes around
the whole house!
Feeling
magically holy singing “Away in a Manger”
In a church
lit only by candles.
Sitting
lunch, dinner, then breakfast, lunch, dinner
the next day
in front of a graying scoop of liverwurst.
Finally I
decide to gulp it down in one big, horrific moment.
I do,
throwing up all over my grandmother’s shoes.
Even kids
win some of the time.
Eleven through twenty
A vast
voyage all the way from
lying in my
treehouse reading Nancy Drew,
to making
love in the back seat of a borrowed car.
From
learning fractions to studying Latin,
from paper
dolls to hair curlers made from frozen orange juice cans,
from sock
hops to no socks.
From believing
that being grownup means I can have ice cream for
breakfast every
day,
to the
terrifying realization I am going to have to come up with the rent
every month
for the next 50 years.
Twenty-one to Thirty
Working for
a living,
going into
therapy,
joining a
church,
dating guys
who plan to become dentists or lawyers,
while, in my
mind’s ear I hear, the heavy metal doors of
suburban
marriage closing behind me,
bridge and
barbecue.
I want to
discover the meaning of life.
I sit on the
backsteps of my little house
on Christmas
day splitting a can of tunafish with the cat.
I want God!
Thirty-one to Forty
Now I have a
career,
senior editor
at McGraw-Hill,
where I
change whiches to thats and thats to whiches.
In forty
years I will hobble to the front of the employees lounge
and be given
a Timex watch and a piece of cake.
I take up
Tarot cards and move to Florida,
as the Major
Arcana advise.
There, my
life is waiting for me,
my husband,
my friends, theater, art,
Paynes
Praire, Poe Springs,
heron and
bison and poetry workshops,
love and
turmoil and beauty.
Forty-one to Fifty
When I was a
child older women did volunteer work
and had
hobbies.
They put
together care packages for missionaries in Africa,
pushed bookcarts
at the hospital,
organized
church bazaars and quilting bees.
I would
never be so pitiful,
I thought to
myself.
I will be
writing books,
long and
lean and much sought after by men who live in New York City.
Genetics is
destiny?
I turn into an old Vermont woman,
Stewing down
home-grown tomatoes from the garden,
raising cats
and, yes,
doing volunteer
work.
Fifty-one to Sixty
Is like peri-menopause,
the organs
of creation in a frenzy,
blood lust,
fruition,
plays
written, poems published,
children off
to college.
The
existential void looms,
“Fill
me! Fill me!”
“The gift of
time is upon you.”
What was it
that I wanted?
I remember,
I wanted God.
One day
behind the counter of a homeless shelter,
an old vet
asks for his mail.
I look at
him and he, shape-shifting,
turns into
Jesus, just for a moment.
(This I keep
to myself, until now.
I’m old, it’s
okay to have crazy secrets,
no one cares
anymore, especially me.)
Sixty-one to Seventy
Busy, busy,
busy!
For 69 years
and 364 days I believe that I am in
late middle
age.
I ignore
being tired, I ignore being stressed,
until I can’t
anymore.
I turn 70.
It hits me
like a meteor from outer space.
I’m old! I’m really old!
I’m at the age
people start dying.
Will I die
today?
Will I die
next Tuesday?
Time to find
God now!
HELP!
(Can’t I
just go back for one day and make a dandelion chain
around the
whole house?
Can’t I bike
across town, wind blowing through my hair?)
No.
I read
mystical books,
I surrender,
I don’t surrender, I surrender, don’t surrender, surrender,
little
swarms of Godness dropping from the ceiling,
rising from
the floor,
blessed
decades gone,
blessed days
are mine.