Walking Wounded

A couple of weeks ago my partner, Sam, and I saw the movie, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, starring
a clutch of senior Brit actors—Maggie Smith, Judi Dench, Tom Wilkinson, Bill
Nighy, and others—and the younger, charming Dev Patel. The story is about a
group of British elders who decide to “outsource” their retirement and move to
a hotel haven in India, only to find on their arrival that the haven is a
hovel.




The film is a delight. It tugs at the heartstrings and
tickles the funny bone, and, all in all, gives viewers a chance to see some of
the best older actors around do their thing. The aging actors are resplendently
wrinkled. Sam turned to me afterward and asked, “Didn’t they put any makeup on
them?” It did make us wonder.




Perhaps it was seeing this movie that made my own age come home
all the more in those moments when one looks in the mirror and wonders who
might that be looking back. I’m still not quite a senior citizen—at least, not
all the time. But I’m not far off.




Sitting in a coffee shop today, I became aware of an older
woman passing by the window on her way in. Gray haired, probably in her
seventies, she was still sprightly, dressed in rolled up khaki shorts. I
noticed that her athletic shoes had been split in the back to accommodate
braces on both ankles. The shoes and the braces, the shorts, not caring who
noticed, all bespoke a certain indomitable spirit.




Seeing her inspired the poem that I jotted down once I got
home. Perhaps it will strike a chord, particularly with my older readers.




Walking Wounded




We are the walking wounded,

Limping, bodies bent under years,

Torn pages from calendars, torn up,

Tossed like confetti. We celebrate




The wear and tear on joints

Used for running and jumping,

The wrinkles around eyes and mouths

From laughing at life, at ourselves.




I get the senior discount, sip coffee

Over old news and new stories,

Savor my small-portion banquets

And turn in early to wake even earlier.




I prize clear mornings and foggy mirrors,

Moments when I remember names.

We are walking, wounded, oh yes,

But we are walking all the same.