I am 82 years old

I am 82 years old.

 

I am in a wooden rocking chair

not out of necessity

but because I enjoy its peaceful rhythm.

 

I rock slowly back and forth

my porch is made of old, varnished native wood

it creaks in unison with each rock of my chair.

 

It is sunset,

I look out over a small, sandy bay,

splashed red-purple by the evening sun.

 

There is an old woollen blanket on my knees that was my fathers

in the background there is the laughter of children,

I am alone on the porch,

snatching a brief moment of solitude

behind me, in the house, my children

berate their children for making a mess

with their toys on the floor

I laugh

I gave them the toys.

 

From the kitchen wafts the smell of fresh baked bread

and homemade vegetable soup

the vegetables were grown in the back yard by my grandchildren..

I taught them how to grow things.

 

In the corner of the house, someone is playing a guitar

beneath my feet, just in front of my chair,

is an old dog, sleeping.

 

I finger a set of prayer beads given to me

by an old monk I met somewhere on my travels

I give thanks for a good life and children

and the chance to make a difference

the wind blows flowers from a Kowhai tree into my lap..

the breeze is warm

I am content.

 

I fall asleep and snore loudly

until my family comes

to fetch me for dinner.

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~ by humblemonkey on November 6, 2009.

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