They Look At Me and Laugh

They look at me and laugh, seeing 65. I look at them and smile, seeing 27. They are new, I am not. They are fresh. But nowhere as fresh as I can be. Sh! It’s a secret. I look at them and smile, feeling 12. They look at me and laugh, thinking 70. They scoot away, sitting in corners, as far as they can get. Whispering, laughing, a comfortable pack, leaving no chairs. I take the blue chair at the table and sit alone, enjoying my own company. They have fancy drinks with decorated straws, in expensive cups. I have a bottle of water beaten a bit, I’ve been re-filling it for a couple of days. Two come close enough to see what I am writing as they get a cookie, but they don’t look. I am sixty-five, another word for invisible. Do they know I have a sense of humor? Or an amazing sense of play? One whispers, “I don’t know how she can relate to the little ones.” I hear something about diapers, and dementia. Some of the really funny ones laugh. I make a note on my paper, so I will remember how amusing they are. It’s interesting how people begin to box you The minute they see you. Not all. But some. I remember feeling a little like them forty-years ago, And I feel a little embarrassed, but never ashamed, because My best friend at 28 was 71, and I know I was Never unkind.