i can't wait to be old. i can't wait to be wrinkly oma with silver and grey hair. i can't wait to have spotted, gnarled hands like tree roots, hands that have done so much: built, cooked, fed, felt, created. i can't wait for time, age, nostalgia, to wrap me up in a soft shawl, to cloud my memory and vision with rose. to look back on my life and see the follies that pain me so much now merely as soft missteps. i can't wait for the winter of my life, my autumn over, my life finding its silence, its peace. i will live a life vibrant and at my end i will know i walked as best as i could, until my legs grew too weak to carry me any further. at my end i'll become a young star and a button sewn onto the coat of time worn by all those i've known, the little waves made from my life neverending