Yep! It’s me, my generations’ time

my own genders‘ privilege

to get to haggard, toothy crone-dom;

to celebrate and own

its shriveled and wrinkly liberties.

The assurances of that journey:

not career progressions or appearances

nor preservation of amateur bloom

or matriarchal status

but the weathering of storm and loss,

of child-bearing, deaths of beloveds

worn and torn by

flights of fancy and failure,

bearing the burdens of shame and hope

mortgages, jobs, diminishing returns…

...then,

 now - regrets and fears relinquished

come to terms with endings

patched up with replacement parts

false teeth, implants, chemical additives,

gone through the judgements,

frustrations and attrition of time,

the frailties of mind and will,

the  sham rationalisations and fixes

all done -  and dissipated.

 

Set free.

Little old ladies with purple hats.

Herb brewing harpies with pet frogs.

Grannies, witches, dragons, shrews

come into their own.

 

See them at the bus-stop

on the park bench, at the corner shop.

Pottering in their back-yard veggie patch

or blackberrying, feeding the ducks

rummaging in charity stalls:

knuckles grown knobbly,

venturesome and crotchety

on Zimmer frames and walking sticks,

bespectacled and (selectively) deaf,

querulous in the vet’s waiting room,

smart in singularity and survival

quick to be slow.

 

They are the story-tellers

guardians of the hearth,

keepers of family-lore,

unmeaning way-showers

and hall-markers of mortality.

Ultimate pragmatists

uncaring of precedence.

Reduced to - arisen to? -

sheer simplicity, presence.

Whether nice or nasty

who cares!