Apart From The Times I Do

I do not wish to grow old. I see them sometimes, and I do not wish to be that age. I do not wish to walk around slowly, limping, as though I’m falling onto each leg in front of the other. I do not wish to abruptly break silences with a guttural cough, a cough that sounds like it might spill out whatever has kept me alive this long.

I do not wish to grow old. Apart from the times I do. I wish to be able to give directions to people and know fully that I am right. I wish to be old enough to have conversations about which shops had moved; “Oh, they moved the coffee store across the road to where that old billiards place used to be.” I’d say.

I do not wish to grow old. Alone. Waking up in the mornings, unsure if I’m grateful for another day or upset that I had not gone yet, turning, and finding nobody to my side. Spending my noons on solitary walks. Or maybe I’d end up in a home, surrounded by the aged and their caretakers. I wish to grow old with those that made growing old feel easy — ‘Cause God knows it wasn’t. With those that coloured the previous decades of living, and to watch the painting alongside them.