Talking to Myself Thirty-Four

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.