Between the Years

I see the elderly in the young. I see them carrying home in a string bag, onions, large carrots pale red nub-ends poking through tattered holes. A scarf tied over thinning gray hair. A face bent over a struggling heart. Then, that same figure skips along in new cotton socks, her golden ponytail whisking. as my eyes blink away 60 years. The decrepit unwind, stretching their green roots. Roll together in a kindergarten graveyard, where the turf is sanctified by immature passions. My neighbor is old, too young, dead, yet here under my hand her upturned face kisses my rough fingers. I want to take her to the park, buy her ice-cream, get high, on her girlish glee. Here is a teenager, I used to walk just like that, head all cock-a-loop and sure enough, just cooling his engines and as slick as lip balm. I too used to mesmerize with my hips like that. Deloris serves cupcakes in the doughnut shop, she is past her best days, but still pretty in a washed-up way. I love her, but am too young today on my first 74th birthday. The old and young are my parents, lost and found in every stray body. Am I blessed? Then why, late at night, when the boneless wind calls my name, why do I grow so afraid?