50, 983, 200 Minutes

January 20, 2009
By , Arlington Heights, IL
I am 15.
I own the world,
and every step I take upon the earth
is my impression,
my fingerprint,
that I am leaving behind. No harm
can come to me. At almost 16,
I am unstoppable.
I wish I was older.

I am 21.
I am a work-in-progress,
learning the truths life beholds.
No longer am I just unstoppable:
I am Superman;
Kryptonite
is my only weakness.
A few more years,
I will have a family,
people I can and will protect.
I wish I was older.

I am 47.
I have experienced
more than I ever thought.
Death and loneliness
consume
years of my life.
I have loved
and lost,
my heart quickly learning
the small amount of time
that it feels elated
is not worth the inevitable pain.
I wish I was older.

I am 65.
I have retired
my working life.
Now, I write.
Words are scribbled
beneath my pen with blotches
of ink on my parchment.
Sentences form,
and I can only hope
someone will read my thoughts
someday.
I wish I was older.

I am 97.
I sit here in my wheelchair,
staring out of a barred window,
remembering the past.
I remember playing tag with friends,
chasing our shadows;
I remember my first kiss;
I remember my first love,
and losing that love.
I remember living alone . . . being alone.
And I know that this is how I will end:
Alone.
I wish I was younger.





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