More Snow Melt

The Pain of Autumn

The dampness settles into my bones. In the morning, stiff joints beg to remain in bed until the sun ascends over the eastern mountains. I don’t remember getting old. I remember the birthdays and the years they passed ever more swiftly, but I don’t remember getting old.

I look in the mirror and see a gray haired effigy resembling my mother at sixty-four. This vision is at odds with the picture of myself I carry in my mind. I still see myself as young and beautiful. I still see myself as a woman desired by every man on Earth, but this isn’t the picture I see in the mirror.

When did I begin to get old? When did my hair begin turning gray? When did my breast begin sagging? When did the osteoarthritis begin attacking my right knee? I rise gingerly from my bed, knowing that at any moment a shooting pain will rise from my knee and shoot through my leg.

I don’t remember giving myself permission to get old. I’ve begun to change my perception of age. Now, I know why my mother and grandmother didn’t like the term “elderly” because I don’t think of myself as “elderly”. I can still do anything I set my mind to it just takes me longer.