Introspectives Of A 93 Year Old Lady Poem by Lynn W. Petty

From thoughts expressed and, sayings said
By Anne Reina, our mother, who died at 93 years
Of age.

Who is that mirrored image gazing back at me?
Gray hair, wrinkled countenance,
Is it possible I am she? How could
Life escape me so? How could time collapse
About my being with such ferocity?
What ravages have happened?
I cannot seem to recognize that face.
Is this the yield of my ninety-three years?
Yet, I know it is. Where has time delivered me?
Where is my awareness of its passing?
Yes, I remember the joys of living, the tears of life.
I remember laughter, successes, failures, and heartbreaks.
I remember births, timely and untimely deaths
Of loved ones; my marriage, childbirth,
Grandchildren, even great-grandchildren.
It all seems an endless blur. A merging of all
Of those incidents into one continuous screening
Of life, according to my ability, well lived.
Well lived? Yes. Purposefully lived,
Advisedly directed.
Some say willed, even controlled.

They say that a person of my age has no future.
They say that we dwell only upon the past.
My body does not respond as it did, that is true.
But, I am still young in mind. I am still interested
In the world around me. I still think.
I must have value, for all these years could
Not have been for naught.
Yet, why do I feel so alone?

I guess God is good to we older people,
We linger around in old age for a short time,
Lamenting our wrinkles and our arbitrary old bodies,
Trying to keep out of the way; asking ourselves
What we could have done differently,
If given the opportunity to relive certain
Aspects of life.
Would we do it differently? I suppose not.
At the time we thought the way we did things was correct.

Eventually, we are called. We leave. We leave for an unknown
Destination; unzipping this albatross, we call ourselves,
To the elements from which it was made.
We keep, I am told, that ingredient of
Self identification; that effervescent constituent
That caused this mortal framework to function.
The merging itself into an action of timelessness,
Lost in a cathedral of empurpled oblivion.

Life, as we call it, is oblivion, created to correct
Our spiritual defects.
I wonder, sometimes, how we acquired defects if we are
A perfect expression of Himself.
I wonder why, He would need to express Himself through us.
I wonder why, if He is eternally perfect, what aroused
Within Him the necessity to create and
In particular, such imperfections as are we?

Actuality comes after death, I am sure. We are here
Such a short period of time. They claim that we will live
In eternal felicity, forever.
It seems an uneven trade, 'Forever' for this short life.
Then, therefore, this must be the illusion.
Living, as we call it, does nothing more than create
Patina on the soul.