Maybe I’m just afraid of aging,
not for cosmetic reasons, I’d rather
have a wrinkle over a pimple on my face.
It’s the uncertainty of the far future. I know
the lavender bush will bloom next season,
but will she last the next five years? Ten? Forty?

I see in my grandfather the grip of time,
I could accept the greying hairs, but now
they recede and leave his head bare.
I worry he needs a hat to keep warm
and to keep the memories neatly where they belong.
I worry that it won’t be long
until my grandchildren have the same fear.

I’d rather die young, forty in a mysterious incident
or thirty-five in the ocean, saltwater flooding
my lungs because I never learned to swim
from my grandfather. I’d rather die young
than live long enough to know that my babies
fear the day I might forget them. I’d rather die
young than watch my grandchildren wait for me
to become a caricature of loneliness, the familiar
features of my youth faded into a new face. I’d rather die
clueless to the way their hearts break seeing me
grow old and frail and grey, teary-eyed goodbyes
because they think each day with me is a miracle.
I’d rather die than become a stranger in their mother’s casket.