I looked it up with interest,
with an image in my mind of . . .
sunshine, a small cottage, and a scented garden . . .
with roses around the door.
Perhaps a stroll to the local pub;
maybe a trip down the river.

The word I sought was "retirement."

My thesaurus, dear old friend,
proved somewhat blunt
and said, amongst other things,
“Elderly, emeritus, retreat, pensioned,
past . . .” (Past what, it didn't say).
“Solitude, obscurity . . .”
What a list! It made me think.

The roses need pruning,
the local pub is closed,
the riverside too bumpy for a wheelchair.
Am I supposed to relish this?
When my Granny “retired”, she simply
went to bed with sips of night-time brandy,
everyone running after her,
and lots of chicken and smoked salmon
because they were 'easy to digest.'

I've been put out to grass.
I can't eat it,
I can't cut it,
wheelchairs don't like it.
I can take myself off,
shut myself away,
turn tail,
hit the hay.

I can be 'elderly' and benevolent.
I can be 'ancient' and vitriolic.
What I cannot be is central to me: exist –
and that is hard.
I can be a peripheral pest!
However, ‘past it’?
Never.

I've learned a few tricks on the way.
My thesaurus – dear, old, well- thumbed friend –
also says,
'Cancel a debt,'
‘Decide a verdict,'
'Make an exit.'
Which shall I tackle first?


© by Rhona Aitken.
Used with the author’s permission.