Choosing

I lie here in bed reading, being inspired once again by the voice of Alice Walker.   I raise my left arm up, letting my hand descend to rest on my head.

A gesture of nonchalance you might think.

Apparently not,  as there in front of me hangs this wrinkled skin that is my forearm.   It didn’t used to be.

I put the book down and draw my fingers over the creases in my skin.  It feels so soft – not seductively soft – but soft like a form that had lost it’s inner structure.

I smile to myself and consider the choice to be made here.  I can focus on the loss of youth or the passing of middle age, or I can rejoice and feel gratitude for living today.

When I recall a time that I might have died some years ago, that choice is easy.

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