The concept of time fascinates me. Einstein talked of other dimensions, planes, and how time moves/influences a thing depending on where one is. (Don’t stone me, if I’ve gotten Einstein’s concept wrong. This is poetry I can take some liberties.) Madeline L’Engle wrote of time and dimensions fluidly, as a mixture of science, faith and magic.
I ponder life and those that have come before us. I think of those that will inherit the space we own now. I envision people walking on the land I walk on. I overlay their movements on my own. I walk and almost see the haze of their strides sharing the same space as mine. I think the same about my future and past selves impinging on the me of today.
I’ll be one of those lovely old brown ladies who always wears darkly fuschia lipstick and laughs loudly.
The old lady who talks to tall chain wearing men and smiling cafe con leche babies.
Like I am that middle-aged woman whose presence invites harried young mothers to rest.
The one who knows that bad thing you cannot forgive yourself for but hugs you anyway.
Like I was the girl who loved to run and climb trees but read so deeply she forgot to play.
The one who collected words, stories of Anne Bonny and Mary Read, and dreamed.
Like the baby I was born months early, so small I fit within my father’s left hand.
The woman, birthed from that newling, who did not die — then or now — no matter the times Death asked.