Look in My Window

               So, look in my window.  Stare at me.  Mock me.

What do you think you see?

A white haired woman standing by the counter, cooking?

I hear you thinking, "Why does she stand there,

day after day, just cooking, cooking?

She's alone, who the hell will eat all that food?"

Might you, peeking in my window, see more than this chopping old fool?

Might you think, "There's a person who wants to be useful."

It is painful when you are more than the world wants.

Energy imploding, cells discouraged from replicating,

wrinkles manifest like uncooked ramen noodles.

It is a fact of this world that we must fight to be visible, useful, appreciated,

as the years pile up like chicken bones tossed in the grass after a picnic.

Fight.  What a word...

In aging, who wants to fight?

You, in the window, why don't you turn away?  What's the fascination?

Could you possibly be thinking that I have something to give you?

I could make you laugh; I could make you cry; I could make you think;

I could feed you.

You think I am used up, but you don't understand:  I want to be used up -

when I can't light the oven anymore.

Big pots of soup, whole baked chickens, yeasty loaves of bread,

gallon jars of kim chee, cookie sheets of roasted apples and peaches.

© Evie Safran, 2015

"Peasant Woman Cooking by a Fireplace"
Vincent van Gogh, 1885
Metropolitan Museum of Art
from Wikimedia Commons