I am old.
I am a woman.
And therefore, I am an old woman?
My body is old.
My body is that of a woman.
Therefore, I have an old womanís body.
But I am not an old woman.
I live with my son and his wife and his daughter.
I think they love me, but Iím not sure sometimes.
I can never seem to please them.
I donít understand why itís never enough.
I tell my son about when he was a boy.
I tell his wife about how good dinner was.
I tell his daughter that her hair is so pretty.
But Iím always wrong.
My son smiles at me and nods,
As if I donít know what Iím talking about.
His wife looks at me strangelyÖ
Maybe she doesnít like compliments on her cooking.
And his daughter is the worst.
She scowls at me when I say hello,
She acts as if Iím an idiot.
She treats me like a child.
Maybe I am a child.
Thatís what they say.
I hear my family whispering in the kitchen,
That it wonít be much longer, so they must take care.
Soon this disease will take much more than my memory.
I will do worse than leave washed dishes dirty,
And put forks away where the spoons go,
And put lettuce in my chili.
Worse than act like a child.
They say I canít do anything for myself.
They wash my clothes for me, so I wash them again.
They say Iím basically a child, so I throw tantrums.
They say Iím an old woman and theyíll take care of me,
But Iím not old!
Iím a child in an old womanís body.