I’ve been thinking about aging lately. I imagine it’s because I’m on the verge of retirement. I think about women aging, about Don Lemon commenting that Nikki Haley is too old to be president; as a woman, she passed her prime in her 30s or 40s, and now that she’s 50 - what? She has to be attractive to men to be president? She is in her prime for being president, still young, especially compared to our last two presidents. A woman who has hit middle age isn’t done, but all too many men think she is. She has “hit the wall”. But middle-aged women have skills and experience, just like middle-aged men. Even on the job, she is expected to be “hot”. How can a woman ever break that glass ceiling if by the time she has the experience she needs, she is considered “too old” - even though she is about thirty years younger than our current president. I’m a life-long Democrat, and don’t plan to vote for Nikki Haley, but such comments make me almost tempted to - almost. So today, a poem about aging.

WRINKLES

 Time drifts away.
Wrinkles stay.
Years of ironing,
But the wrinkles get worse.
She can’t iron out the wrinkles
On her face.
He doesn’t look at her anymore.
When he does, all he sees
Are wrinkles and gray hairs.
He cannot see the woman
Behind the wrinkles.
The woman who once fired his passion.
The woman who bore his children.
The woman who worked while he went to school,
Then he forgot he was supposed to put her through.
He cannot see the woman, the person.
He only sees the wrinkles,
The gray hairs,
And so he doesn’t look.

 He packs his bags.
He wants a smoother face.|
She has the children…teenagers now.
He takes the money.
She never finished school
Because he forgot his promise.
How will she survive?
Promises are ice cream,
Sweet when they are fresh,
But melting in the heat.
Her face melted into wrinkles,
Melted as she ironed his shirts,
Mended his buttons,
Fixed his meals,
Bore his children.
He’s as old as she is,
But the wrinkles
She cannot iron away
Are all he can see.