My crone locks eyes - demanding connection – extending arms – letting me into - a Degas’ smudged pastel – a Toulouse Lautrec poster – a ballerina – a whore. There’s no need for recognition – no need to comply, to conform – she’s dancing her own path – like my cat – independent – watchful – alert – fierce - then at peace – sprawled on a sunny cushion – eyes closed – purring
Purring a whisper: ‘ageing isn’t scary – the media’s deception is by design – not all are in nursing homes – not all struggle to cross the road – you are the same, it’s only the container that changes’
In the birthday card I got when turning fifty, “an eighty years old” is stretching her leg along a lamppost – high up – straight
I’m not eighty yet - my legs still have a way to go
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