Midlife

What is it? Must we mark a calender, and tell ourselves, Okay, this is the midway point, we’ve reached the summit. From this point forward, we’re on a downhill slide, where the river’s bend is transparent, purple turns to gray, and summers char your insides to ashes? Do winters now begin to freeze bones, crack them like icicles falling on concrete? I have passed the midway point, so where does this leave me? Do I vegetate, or keep sliding into zero? Well, listen up, mark it down. I refuse to accept defeat, I will beat the odds. I am my mother’s daughter. Her indomitable spirit permeates my genes.