Old Man Wishes (Poetic Prose)

Old Man Wishes
(Poetic Prose)



When you’re old you usually have a wish or two, the big one perhaps being, to settle everything unsettled in your life, before it ends. Make peace where there is no peace; to do what one thought he or she should have done but never did: at this ripe old age, the age of the last wish, the age of reclining, the meltdown age of old age creeping up the spine, at this ripe old age, one’s wishes, can be punishing, frightening, all for no reason whatever, because s/he deserted those dreams and wishes long ago, for a less troubled life, I suppose. The old man, and I mean by saying old man, really mean, the old person in general, is likened to bird settled down in a nest; he is turning ugly with age, hair looks like a cornfield, his wishes back in the day, were not flat, not like now anyhow, not like a flat river bed now, that runs dray within his head, not like a brick wall, too tall now to climb, he is only a dim shape, he will disappear soon, he knows this too. And he realizes now, that wall he built so tall, was built long ago. He’s not that same person anymore.

The old man now is sick and soft, eaten up by time, piece by piece, too many candles to count on the cake, not enough room to place the candles on; it’s all about space and birth-cakes, and too many birthdays. He would in most cases, like to buy a little more time (if he had the means). Even if he doesn’t follow through on those so called missed wishes and dreams, he sees as having missed, somewhere along the line, and he most likely will not, even if given more time, he will do what he has always done, it will have not mattered at the end, you see they really were not all the precious, not all that important because he found replacements for them long ago, and will again if given a second change.

The old man knows the young man sees tomorrow differently than he, he, the young man will see it with hope and vitality, adventure, and destiny waits. On the other hand, the old man sees it like chalk and cheese, what will be will be, and it will not be much, usually. Tomorrow is nothing more than tomorrow, just another tomorrow, which will have a dawn, and daylight and morning, noon and then comes twilight, and the circle starts all over again, because at night when you are sleeping, you are dead anyhow, and see nothing, so there is nothing to say about after twilight, it is empty space.

The old man feels heritage in his: bones, flesh, meat, nerves, muscles—they were trained long ago to withstand temporary hardships, a crisis to solve the dilemma of life that is before he had had the chance to grow old. That in itself is a gift, not everyone gets. Somewhere along the line, life’s line, his voice was indeed small, soft or he would not have survived glory and peace, when there was so much war in-between.

The old man (and we can add woman, for the word I use as man, means both), the old woman, was not only waiting for anything to happen, she prayed it didn’t. And an ordinary life stood suddenly and foremost at her wishing door; why? because she had writings to finish. She knew there was a season for everything, and it was the season to write, what she lived; before it was the season to live, and writer what she lived later, it’s hard to balance both on the same scale, or add two seasons in one, if you do, you get what you pay for, fifty-fifty, you cannot get a hundred out of a hundred when you are splitting seasons, so many people try. Perhaps some of these life lived seasons, were not long enough and others too long, but long enough to get into the mood of the times, to do what needed to be done at the time the season started, to do whatever one must do, and do it the best one can, you can’t ask for much more, and if you do, and if you get what you ask for, who knows, you’ve been blessed.

What more can the old have said to the wish, perhaps a postscript that says this: A good wish is to die with a clear conscience.