55.
The age of post-midlife crises and doctor visits.
Backs cracking, heels tapping, salsa lessons with two left feet.
Getting out of bed is a little harder, you slumber a little deeper.
So many pills you can’t even count them.
The age of watching children go into the world with your blessing.
Raising little ones from tiny tots to full-fledged lawyers in grey suits.
Favorite Chanel lipstick discontinued.
Your baseball team finally wins a World Series.
Losing weight, gaining weight, losing it and then gaining it all back
because a belly is fine when you’re 55.
Eating what you want, when you want
Reminiscing about the “Good Old Days”
Starting stories with “Remember when?” and
ending with “Ah, to be young again.”
The return of “This generation!” and “By Jove!”
Your kids tell you “hip” isn’t a thing anymore.
The age of sorrow, of realizing innocence was an illusion.
The age of memory, of history, of regrets and lost loves
but also the age of pride, and strength, and courage.
Wrinkles, anti-aging cream, companies prey on your fear of death
Its reflection in your face scares you and then
it doesn’t.
Because your history only reflects the battles you’ve fought
because you are proud of your lines
because your scars are not scars
because you are a goddamn tiger who earned their stripes.
The age of confusion, of repeating yourself,
of “where did my car keys go?” and “why is everything changing?”
A bustling, hustling, tussling wave that sweeps you up and drags you along
You might have surfed that wave thirty years ago.
The age of modern technology you don’t quite get
Children who are a little more reluctant to explain it to you
A world that doesn’t make sense and yet makes more sense than ever
The age of contradictions, of Lipitor, and diabetes warnings
Of Susie-from-grade-school friending you on Facebook
Of diseases and fear and Ebola and news and conservative leanings
Less rally marches, less “Save the Penguins!” and more 401ks.
The only age that 55 is not
is Death.
At 55, you are only opening the gate to Death’s mansion
Black, obsidian, and looming in the distance
Closer, yes, but not here yet.
At 55, you are alive with the sound of music
With love in your veins and power in your heart
At 55, you are free.
So this is to you, my father
For whom 55 was not the age of salsa lessons or Lipitor
It was not the age of baseball, lipstick, and carbohydrates
Nor the age of backyard Frisbee, running your first 5K
For you, 55 was the age of hospitals and white gowns open in the back
The age of needles, Needle Hotel, fresh-out-of-med-school nurses with pity in their eyes
Anger, fury, questioning, and then
acceptance. Mild-mannered. I'm not sure which saddened me more.
The age of family, of old friends paying their respects.
Of birds that soared in the blue sky outside your hospital window.
"I wonder what it's like to be free," you told me.
The age of love. Of friendship. Of storytelling. Of a life told in pictures and diary entries
bad fashion choices you relived (remember those bell-bottoms?)
of pained smiles when it got really bad
of dark rooms, closed windows, no speaking.
Days where you needed space, needed time, but nobody could loan you any.
For you 55 brought with it only pain and misery and radiation therapy
You didn’t gain weight, but withered away to bones.
For you, it was the age of dreaded doctors in hushed tones
Of love underneath the lindens that gleamed before the watchful eyes of a full moon
Of graveyards and dirt and the pain of saying goodbye.
This is for you.
The age of post-midlife crises and doctor visits.
Backs cracking, heels tapping, salsa lessons with two left feet.
Getting out of bed is a little harder, you slumber a little deeper.
So many pills you can’t even count them.
The age of watching children go into the world with your blessing.
Raising little ones from tiny tots to full-fledged lawyers in grey suits.
Favorite Chanel lipstick discontinued.
Your baseball team finally wins a World Series.
Losing weight, gaining weight, losing it and then gaining it all back
because a belly is fine when you’re 55.
Eating what you want, when you want
Reminiscing about the “Good Old Days”
Starting stories with “Remember when?” and
ending with “Ah, to be young again.”
The return of “This generation!” and “By Jove!”
Your kids tell you “hip” isn’t a thing anymore.
The age of sorrow, of realizing innocence was an illusion.
The age of memory, of history, of regrets and lost loves
but also the age of pride, and strength, and courage.
Wrinkles, anti-aging cream, companies prey on your fear of death
Its reflection in your face scares you and then
it doesn’t.
Because your history only reflects the battles you’ve fought
because you are proud of your lines
because your scars are not scars
because you are a goddamn tiger who earned their stripes.
The age of confusion, of repeating yourself,
of “where did my car keys go?” and “why is everything changing?”
A bustling, hustling, tussling wave that sweeps you up and drags you along
You might have surfed that wave thirty years ago.
The age of modern technology you don’t quite get
Children who are a little more reluctant to explain it to you
A world that doesn’t make sense and yet makes more sense than ever
The age of contradictions, of Lipitor, and diabetes warnings
Of Susie-from-grade-school friending you on Facebook
Of diseases and fear and Ebola and news and conservative leanings
Less rally marches, less “Save the Penguins!” and more 401ks.
The only age that 55 is not
is Death.
At 55, you are only opening the gate to Death’s mansion
Black, obsidian, and looming in the distance
Closer, yes, but not here yet.
At 55, you are alive with the sound of music
With love in your veins and power in your heart
At 55, you are free.
So this is to you, my father
For whom 55 was not the age of salsa lessons or Lipitor
It was not the age of baseball, lipstick, and carbohydrates
Nor the age of backyard Frisbee, running your first 5K
For you, 55 was the age of hospitals and white gowns open in the back
The age of needles, Needle Hotel, fresh-out-of-med-school nurses with pity in their eyes
Anger, fury, questioning, and then
acceptance. Mild-mannered. I'm not sure which saddened me more.
The age of family, of old friends paying their respects.
Of birds that soared in the blue sky outside your hospital window.
"I wonder what it's like to be free," you told me.
The age of love. Of friendship. Of storytelling. Of a life told in pictures and diary entries
bad fashion choices you relived (remember those bell-bottoms?)
of pained smiles when it got really bad
of dark rooms, closed windows, no speaking.
Days where you needed space, needed time, but nobody could loan you any.
For you 55 brought with it only pain and misery and radiation therapy
You didn’t gain weight, but withered away to bones.
For you, it was the age of dreaded doctors in hushed tones
Of love underneath the lindens that gleamed before the watchful eyes of a full moon
Of graveyards and dirt and the pain of saying goodbye.
This is for you.
