old bed

This bed by the same window overlooking the then smaller tree some thirty five years ago is now holding a heavier body reading a novel: I used not to be as restless. I used to be able to finish a book and savor it with no interruptions. At that time I used to worry about finishing my novel too soon for fear of falling into vacuum before starting the next one. I was awaiting nothing.. letting things be,, I would take things face value not questioning what was for lunch. No need to set the alarm for anything. Now my glasses are reading glasses only.. much slimmer.. I am much heavier; I worry about falling, and try to wisely use the remaining cartilage in my knees. I look at the curtains. I had hemmed them patiently some thirty years ago. I have more love and admiration now for things and thoughts. I am afraid to see things finish. I have a constant urge to write about things, record them, classify them, freeze them, collect them in a bank of memories and emotions just in case I wanted to come back to them at a later stage, … I can no longer find things. I tried to tell my kids that during those long summers nothing specific was planned, nothing ever happened, we were left to just be… I was not sad, nor happy; I just was. I had no questions to answer, being an exemplary obedient follower on the outside. I looked for crafts to make, always from scratch, pre-PINTEREST era. That same bed is now cranking under my weight and age, lovingly asking me if I was OK. I watch my fingers. Just like before, my left thumbnail is remarkably smaller than my right thumbnail, a minor birth defect. The old vaccine mark on my left thigh is now well blended with my skin so much so that I can hardly notice it. I used to believe that everyone had one.. Dried out through the years, I am now de-moisturized all over, inside out. I miss having grandparents, I skipped missing parents, or will get there sometime.. I am still at the stage of missing their parents. Now I look at the floor tiles. I remember contemplating the unevenness in their patterns and wondering where it came from. I see it now.. Just as uneven as it used to be, as uneven as my nails. Now I feel more liberated from unevenness, I went beyond those distinctions, I am unfreezing myself, and I have more love for things. My imagination has developed some kind of Parkinson’s, or epilepsy, on the way to death or maybe emancipation.