Sparks In The Night Poem by Giselle Braeuel

I am not young anymore, my body tells me so.
As the sun comes up it pinches me in many places.
And at the end of the day, as I wait for sleep,
fingers of the night prod into my brain.
My thoughts are like smoldering embers,
their sparks sending me on a journey.
Memories of people, like assorted masks,
parade in front of me.
The more they belong to the past,
the less hazy they are,
that's what age does to you.

I see them vividly, my gentle, loving mother,
my stern but caring dad,
my blond, little brother, my headstrong sister.
A family assigned to me,
a matter of luck only, we can't question.
Later, we design our lives, create our invironment.
We build our own families, choose friends.
When that fork comes in the road,
we try to make decisions, wise and with integrety.
Because that's all there is! So that at the end of the day,
when the fingers of the night prod into your brain,
smoldering embers send sparks of a well-lived life.