Something to Celebrate

        She believed in age, in embracing growing old, in knowing, even loving, the scrawny arm, the wave of wrinkles up her cheek, across her forehead, even the neck, the old woe-is-me chicken neck, not a smooth quarter inch anywhere, just the patina of age--patina, the description of beauty for an antique table, a beloved rocking chair, and now, her face.

Well, why not?

Why not?

Yes, why not?

A new mantra for the unstoppable journey into old, old old, then really old.

And who would want to stop it now, leap off the wheel of life too early, become a memory, not her memory, but somebody's, and for how long would that last?

Well, from being a memory, she could move to story, even an oft-told tale, an amusing anecdote, a fond remembrance of another time period for her children, grandchildren and....

Well, yes, better than Glad she's gone...but, really who would think that?

Nope. Not to be considered.

But what's after "faint memory" or "faded history," a story the grand grand grands know, maybe even tell once or twice?

Time...life--was all illusion anyway--a construct, human invention to satisfy the impulse to count, to plan, to know, record, predict, think, assess...which, apparently, is what she was now consumed with.

Yes, that must be it...She was just thinking, letting her thoughts spool out, playfully, an amusing game while she stretched her good leg over the side of the bed, forced the other (given to cramps) to follow, until she was sitting on the side of the bed, straightening her back, vertebrae by vertebrae, to an upright posture-perfect (well, practically perfect) position, the essential prelude to standing up.

Which she did, victorious again!

ALLELUIA!