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.