Katie Maynard
I am a person who knows
before my eyes flutter open
exactly what time it is when I wake.
It’s uncanny and accurate
within minutes of the clock.
Somehow my body just tells me.
For months I’ve been noticing,
and am kind of perplexed,
by a starkly different sense of my age.
In earlier eras
each year was felt clearly
with wistful pangs or open arms.
When now prompted to determine
where I am on a timeline
I really do feel
a full decade younger.
Last week when my crow’s feet
smiled back in the mirror
I swear that I thought
“Ah, not bad for close to 40,”
and was startled to realize my mistake.
Subtracting that decade
puts me right at the place
where math suddenly shifted
from years extending gracefully
to months and their days.
To cycles grasped tightly.
To one line never two.
To limited time.
To my desperation to go backwards
or get it all over with,
just @#$%! finish.
My body became regimented
as my mornings fell differently,
now focused on counting and charting of temps
imperatively taken upon first waking,
entered into apps and notes.
These were things I coulddo
while there was no assurance.
Small rituals and their evidence that there was still a chance.
But despite exhaustivedocumentation,
the dreading of birthdays,
all thegraphs and the charts,
why is it that now I don’t know my true age?
The day I realize why begins as many others do-
Making breakfast, seeing clients.
As I eat my lunch the words I said earlier hang in the air:
“Trauma confuses one’s sense of time.”
My god.
Why was I not abundantly aware
That this blurryinterval
cost more than inconvenience
took more than resilience or energy.
My temporal mind couldn’t follow
because it wasn’t supposed to.
There were other things to address.
My brain simply responded,
wrapped part of itself up
in a box marked Fragile, don’t drop.
I reflexively doubt:
“Can I call that trauma ticor was it just hard?”
Whatever the reason
sitting here with my lunch,
I don’t have the need
to extract and correct.
This span of confusion is just part of my story
which is welcome stay unless it sees itself out.
After all, my heart didn’t stop.
It felt it all and stayed right in step.
I’m exhausted by authors
telling me my forties are
AH-MAZ-ING!
The most vibrant time
when I can still build muscle,
when I am to embrace new power.
These women are naïve,
They’re probably moms
who don’t know (or don’t care?)
how this decade can fall harshly for us.
It’s the end of our options,
proof we waited too long.
When we’re supposed to move on.
I’ve settled on letting
my timeline stay cloudy.
Many details have faded
and to be truthful it’s soothing
to no longer remember
the exact day we started
or when we said “done.”
Who else benefits from me knowing my age?
From knowing my place?
This different life, one less ordinary,
marches along at its own unique pace.
Which makes sense for a person
who bristles, to begin with,
at the things she “should” know
at the ways she “should” be
at the labels for“me.”
Photo by Malvestida on Unsplash