Old

Maybe these moments of feeling that nothing feels right, are not wrong. The wind sighing in the elder and honeysuckle, the sound of L pushing the mower, the smell of white lilies in a pot, and glorious late afternoon August sunshine. Yet my body feels like a badly tuned radio, not receiving correctly, all hiss and static. All crackle. My throat aches but has no idea what it wants to say or to cry about. Old, old, my body feels an old thing, a fragment of a time when nothing could be made right, when there was no comfort, as certainly there is now.