On Turning Seventy Four

I can't even begin to imagine myself at seventy four. I see my children at that age, but not myself. It isn't that I don't think I'll grow that old with time, but that I don't believe in imagining one's one future. I only predict and dream the lives of my most loved ones. No imagining here, today is the seventy fourth birthday of my father in law. Sweet, stubborn, kind pain in the ass. I can only hope that the same can be said of me in forty years.

Before television,

there was you

broadcast to the world.

Loud, vivid, active.

I imagine you towheaded and brave,

and I can say just as brave, "I loved you even then."

Because I see you in my husband, your child grown.

and I thank you for him.

For gifting me the man

you made to love me,

as he can.

As we all do, and will.

Sweet man in your seventy sixth year,

grandpa to my girls.

I remember when your heart was touched

by man and made better.

Thought how strange

it was to have one's heart feel air,

be in the bright light,

be literally touched.

And then, be put back in the dark

of one's chest like pages closing.

And here you are, amazing

always

saying "the first hundred years are the hardest" and winking,

because you know.

And I love you for it.

You are stubborn, and I love you for it.

Stories long, jokes sometimes totally wrong,

advice usually too long and ocassionally wrong

but all from that blessed heart, and oh how I love you for it.

I love you for the few fine hairs on your head,

for your eyebrows thick,

your belt up high and the way you put your wide hand

around your wife's shoulder and simply lean in to her.

Or pat your son's back, or lift my daughters

as if they were the most fragile fruit

to fall from our tree,

because so brave, you just know.

and I love you for it.