Talking to Myself Thirty-Four August 9, 2020
These years push forward their agenda,
but I’m not to know the details or the names.
My episodes might be tiny strokes I don’t
even notice. Or maybe seizures. Brain
doctors can name many things that can
go wrong in an aging brain. Yet most
days I’m tranquil, resting body and mind
more than I used to, sleeping or not
sleeping by whimsy. Sometimes I feel
jittery and make myself rest. One doctor
congratulates me on doing this well at age
eighty-three. Anther threatens me with
massive stroke. Yet I walk, I read, I try
to solve copyright problems for my new
book. Days pass. I muster my patience.
I still love a man who no longer walks
the earth. I type old manuscripts and
translate a Russian friend’s memories,
amazed that he trusts me. I read old
books and study our failings and
foibles, our moments of truth-speaking
and commitment to justice. No one
else knows the details either. Doctors
love to try their fancy medicines, but
sometimes the cures are worse than the
episodes. I want to choose how I live
my life–as long as I can. I haven’t
done too badly so far.
Photo by Janet Wyatt in August 2020 Rose of Sharon tree.