Poetic Asides As blank as blank

As Old as My Mother

I’m almost sixty.

I don’t know why

I thought I’d never

get as old as my mother.

Now, I find myself

walking around in her body,

complaining about aches and pains

and staring at my wrinkly hands.

I think her thoughts,

marveling at how quickly

the weeks go around, wondering

when my name will be called.

I don’t worry as much as she did.

I’m an amateur. She was a professional.

As a teen, I’d be in bed and through thin walls

eavesdrop on Dad and Mom worrying

about who I was out with,

what we were doing together.

I’d never tell them there was

more to worry about than they thought of.

But with all the things

my kids told me

after they were grown,

yes, I’m as old as my mother.