Reflections On An Old Lady:

I saw an old lady

In the supermarket yesterday.

Really small, she was,

Sort of scrunched up,

Like a cold sparrow,

And hunched over a trolley,

Leaning on it for support 

Of her squat and aged body.

She was well enough dressed, you know,

Not poor or clad without a thought,

And as first I saw her, I noticed

How she took the trouble to dye her hair,

And how very thin it was,

At the back of her head,

And I wondered if she knew?

Wondered if some

Well-meaning fool,

Or nasty, hurtful bastard,

Had told her so?

I hoped not.

I watched quite intently

As she moved slowly,

Her trolley a mobile Zimmer-frame,

Her body creaking,

Each step small,

Carefully and deliberately placed,

And I felt pity;

Sorrow for the ravages of time

Which had brutalised her thus.

I noted a wedding ring upon her finger

And considered how once

She had probably been

A pretty woman,

Or characterful, or both,

And had turned the heads,

And hearts of lovers,

Perhaps dancing the nights away;

Maybe working as a physicist, by day,

At MIT's Plasma Science and Fusion Centre;

Bringing children into the world,

Experiencing both agony and ecstasy;

Retiring to the good life.

And I wondered then

If her final choice of companion still lives,

And how he or she has fared with times’ attrition?

Passing her, I cast a sly glance at her face.

Lined, it was, etching more clearly

Than any tattoo, the story of her soul’s life.

It, too, had broadened, perhaps just with time,

And reflected many tales and incidents,

Plus an aging body which hurt somewhat,

And almost always,

And most certainly when moving,

Fast or slow,

Despite the drugs,

Which maybe kept her alive.

I could see there, clearly writ,

Both pain and fortitude.

A strong jaw she had, snub nose,

High forehead and cheekbones,

And keen and curious eyes

Which showed depth,

Deep as a cool, clear well.

Her trolley had, amongst other things I noticed,

Some sort of muesli, cat food, butter, eggs,

Ham, Greek yoghurt, a half baguette,

(Did this suggest she lives alone,

Or that her partner prefers the croissants

She had carefully placed in the trolley?)

Pasta, sauce sachets, and wine;

Quite decent wine, as it happens. 

She was not poor, I thought.

The contents of her trolley,

Her clothes, her shoes, her handbag,

All testified to her financially comfortable state.

It’s odd, then,

That my sympathy for her

Remained; a sincere sympathy but,

I realised, upon a little reflection,

In some ways patronising …

Actually, in all ways patronising.  Very! 

I was almost physically jolted

With the irony of the situation.

I, an old guy, though not as old,

With thinning hair and

My inappropriate ponytail,

Wraggle-arsed jeans,

Boots, dark shades,

And a gut, propped on my trolley’s push-bar,

Could be being observed by somebody younger,

Who was thinking the same thoughts about me;

Sincere sympathy, which if expressed

Would irritate the hell out of me,

Because I am not to be patronised,

Thank you very much,

And I require no sympathy!

So, the scales fell away from my eyes.

The old lady might well feel perfectly the same.

Her life might be good, rich with love,

The pleasure of slow walks

Where she’s obliged to stop,

And smell the roses;

Intellectual curiosity

The joy of new learning,

And an appreciation of

Life,

The Universe,

And Everything;

Of just how wonderful living is,

A feeling which grows with age;

How each dawn is to be grasped,

Not greedily, or fearful of no more,

But fully appreciated as the gift it is, 

And never to be taken for granted

In a Universe mostly cold and hard.

She probably realises

How fortunate she is,

To have lived this long,

When, in the history of humanity,

It is a privilege denied to most.

Though the young think

Somehow it’s smart to be young,

The really smart and lucky thing

Is managing to get to be old

And enjoy its advantages.

Perhaps, like me, she looks back

At her younger self as another person,

Related and, in an odd way loved,

Or at least viewed with rueful

And, quite possibly, embarrassed affection,

But, thank God, no longer with us!

Perhaps, like me, she celebrates

The memories of the joys of the body

In youth, and the not so youthful times;

The wonder and memories of the journey,

Thus far, across all the years,

And now the great joys of the mind,

And the time, experience and perspective,

To consider the astonishing complexity of it all,

With more chance of applying

Some hard-won wisdom.

So, as she trudged, perchance aching,

And as I trudged and judged, also aching,

Perhaps like me, despite this, she is

Happier now than she has ever been,

And considers the creaking body

A mobility system for moving the brain

From one learning experience to another,

And finds the creakiness, pain

And remembering when to take all her pills,

A more than reasonable price to pay

For the glorious twilight years,

When The Sandman makes dreams

A fantastic adventure every night,

And by day the Deity supplies

A wonderful haven here in Brittany,

For the timely examination of the world, the people,

The grace within life,

And the inner landscapes

Which can, limitless, reach out

Across all of time and space to eternity!

So, I will not again patronise the elderly,

For I have not walked in their shoes;

And should you care to patronise me

I don’t, in truth, mind or care,

For it is based on ignorance.

Just as I know not yours,

You know not the extraordinary joys

Of walking – or limping! - in my shoes.

I’m not selfish about my joys, however,

And if you are younger, I wish you luck;

If you are older, I salute your success.

Long may you continue to be my role models!