At Sixty-Three

There is so much history
in me now,
so many memories
from so many phases of life,
all calling for recognition,
for some kind of resolution.

It makes my mind
a very noisy place to be.

There are the sweet memories
I dwell on,
but also the horrifying
that threaten to explode,
the funny ones
that always bring a smile,
the ones so sad,
they are almost satisfying,
the humiliating ones
that make me cringe,
and the old, old ones
from childhood
that appear in sepia now.

So many,
I could just spend
the rest of my life
doing nothing but remembering.

But that’s not how it works, is it?
Life still happens,
more memories crowd in.

I picture myself now
on a stage
of a giant gymnasium.
“Sit down please,”
I say into the reverberating microphone.
“Please. Take a seat.”

And surprisingly,
the memories obey.
The chaos settles.

When all is quiet, I begin.
“I love you all. I do.
I need for you to know that.”

I look out
at all of those expectant eyes,
just waiting for instruction.
But now that I have
their rapt attention,
I don’t know what else to say.

Because they are all so vital
and they are my life so far,
messy and complicated
and beautiful.
There is no simple narrative,
no wrapping them up
in a neat little package.
There is no resolution,
only acceptance.

So at last I say,
“That is all,”
and they begin to mill around,
the silence broken.
“Carry on,” I shout
above the clamor.

By Maria Brady-Smith
Photo by Mike Smith