The TV's on in the other room and you hear a talk
show host ask, Is it possible to have a midlife
crisis at eighty? There's laughter, so you don't hear
the guest's answer. Folding underwear in the bedroom,
you think, Why not? Surely one can be seized even at
that age by the urge to buy a sports car or motorcycle,
take a lover half their age, quit being the sensible
grandma and go on an open-ended vacation.
It's not that you want your youth back, or feet
still smooth and without bunions. But you want
to put down the things you've been carrying so long
without complaint, to hear someone sing the syllables
of your name instead of the formalities you're known
by—Ma'am, Dr., Ms., Mrs. If by midlife we mean a place
where the crease feels sharpest, a place between
everything we've known and everything that's still
not manifest and therefore a mystery, then there's time
to learn to tango in Argentina, skydive from a plane, not
have to be the one to stay behind while everyone else
boards the tour bus. It's perfectly fine to look through
costume changes backstage, pick out something
bold and outrageous for your next entrance.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
