Cynthia Mac Pherson


Old age. Loss of youth. Loss of vitality. My clumsy thumbs can’t open a jar, carry a pot, lift a child. Sad to lose control Angry. Hurt. Fearful

Now I let go of you. Go fly! I say. Go laugh! Go speak! Go your way. I release control. The
clenched jaw. The grinding teeth. The vice grip.

I will be caressed. Float away. Way up into the blue sky. A bird winging. A fish flipping. A seal wallowing, lazy fin-lying, letting waves take me warm, lazy, trusting, loose, graceful.

I want to loosen up and dance. Let the music take me and dance. Free and floating. Moving my way in this space, where I’m as young as I’ll ever be.

Dance! Move my arms like waving water, my hands like ripples, my head loose as a flower on its stem.


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