One of my friends who went on one year ahead of me and knows the ropes gave me this poem in a card.
Poem for Seniors
A row of bottles on my shelf
caused me to analyze myself.
One yellow pill I have to pop
goes to my heart so it won't stop.
A little white one that I take
goes to my hands so they won't shake.
The blue one that I use a lot
tells me I'm happy when I'm not.
The purple pill goes to my brain
and tells me that I have no pain.
The capsule tells me not to wheeze
or cough or choke or even sneeze.
The red one, smallest of them all,
goes to my blood so I won't fall.
The orange one, very big and bright
prevents my leg cramps in the night.
Such an array of brilliant pills
helping to cure kinds of ills.
But what I'd really like to know
is what tells each one where to go.
I can laugh at that one because I don't have all those ills or take so many pills. But I can identify more with the second one she gave me.
On Growing Older
Everything is farther away than it used to be. It is twice as far to the corner and they have added a hill, I noticed. I have given up running for the bus; it leaves faster than it used to. And it seems to me, they are making stairs steeper than in the olden days.
Have you noticed the smaller print they are using in the newspapers? And there is no sense in asking people to read aloud; everyone speaks in such a low voice I can hardly hear them.
It is almost impossible to reach my shoe laces. Even people are changing. They are much younger than they used to be when I was their age. On the other hand, people my age are so much older than I am.
I ran into an old classmate the other day, and she had aged so much I didn't even recognize her. I got to thinking about the poor thing while I was combing my hair this morning, and in doing so I glanced at my reflection. You know, they don't even make mirrors like they used to!
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