A Photo Of Azaleas Poem by Patti Masterman

Aging is embarrassing;
You can't remember which lover
You told which secret to,
And you suspect they know why
It wasn't them, you sent the photo of Azaleas to
And that it was yet someone else
Sampled your notorious cinnamon rolls, all those years ago.

They are everywhere and nowhere;
Memory has forgotten their wrinkle,
There is no hastily scribbled cheat sheet
Hidden up your sleeve now;
You, who've grown too old for school
And too old to remember, apparently.

In self defense, you stop bringing things up
And when others do, you scratch absently
At your arm, worry small holes
Into stretchy knit hems;
Cough, clear your throat,
Change the subject to anything,
Anything at all-
No, not that!

Daily living is become a febrile mine field
Filled with small tripping stones
Deployed deviously, to trip you up,
And sometimes, you detour so many times
In a day, an hour, that you forget
Which trail you were trying to avoid
And wind up there, by default,
Because whatever nightblind memory's left to you
Is still good at doing just that.

So that on some days, it all becomes too much,
And then you throw your arms up in the air, exasperated
And are heard to proclaim then
That you are old now, and can't be expected
To remember everything anymore.
And if smug smiles greet your words,
You can always squint,
And pretend that you can't see their faces.