I am angry at you for aging.

I don’t remember how old my mother was.  But I do remember my lack of understanding. And probably patience.

I didn’t get it.

Why couldn’t she just stand up when we went to leave that restaurant she always loved.

Why did she take all that time.  Leaning on the table.  Holding the chair back as a crutch.

I didn’t think she needed to do that.  I thought it was a weird way of gaining attention.

I guess I didn’t get it.

She said she couldn’t remember the story I told her yesterday morning.  Really?  She really couldn’t remember?  If she tried?

Did she not hear me?   Or was she just avoiding what I asked?

Why did she stop wearing the little heels she loved?  Coloring the gray out of her hair?

I thought my mom would live forever.  She was my person.  Why was she changing.  She didn’t need to.  She could just push herself a little more.

I didn’t get it.

Now I feel that way about my husband.

I observe in him what I fear in me.

Settling for a walk down the driveway instead of a trip to the gym.

Following the notion that a midday nap is good for you.

Sitting on the edge of the bed to put on socks.

Knees stiff.  Fingers slow.

I am frustrated with him because I see it all in me.

I don’t pop up after a long, boozy dinner.  Walking the streets of New York puts my knees in an altered state.   I can no longer shimmy to the floor dancing to “Louie Louie”.

The name of the star of a show I’m binge watching, escapes me.

I put everything on a calendar.  I set the timer. I pack the day before I leave on a trip.

I am aging too and I don’t want it to be so.

I don’t want you to notice.

I hope you don’t notice.

I cover it with a wash of busyness.  A whoosh of energy.  A whoop of laughter.

But it is coming.   As it did for my mom.  And now for my husband.  And, admittedly, for me.

But that truth doesn’t change anything.

I am still angry at you.