Still

I do not remember growing old.
I did not age like a fine wine
but instead like an apple cut in half
and exposed to oxidation.
And my skin did not stay tight and smooth
but instead wrinkled and dragged.
And my tongue did not stay hard and darting
but instead grew soft and weary
and more susceptible to kind words.
And my hands did not stay cold and coarse
but instead became warm and inviting.

And I did not have children that loved me after they grew up
but instead children that tolerated me
and grandchildren that adored me.
And I never fought in a war
but I watched two on television
and waved goodbye to my son as he shipped off to another.

And I never sobered up
but my liver held on, and so did my wife.
And I never got a second dog after the first
but I did get a turtle that will now outlive me.
A turtle that no one will want to take care of
when I am gone because it smells.

And I did not sell my grandparents’ home
but I fear my children will once I am no longer of this world
and the ones who will come to inhabit it
will never understand what happened here.
And I did not make amends with my father
nor did I apologize to my son
and I maybe never will.
And I never truly understood my wife’s love,
how she could carry a broken man
and fail at making him whole every day
yet wake up to try again the next.

I do not remember growing old
but I am old
and I am remorseful
and I am content
and I am thankful
and I am
still.