AGE IS RELATIVE
For as long as I can remember, my father's hair
Has been the whitest white, as if some of the
Snow that he flew across years ago on his
Snowmobile had stayed permanently on his head.
His eyes always a sparkling ocean blue with a
Depth that hid his secrets and life passages.
Skin so tanned by the work he chose that it
Almost hid the naked woman tattoo on his right arm.
It has been a year since I've seen him, only a
Year. I don't remember his face looking as old
As the mountains. As I hugged him gently and
felt his weariness, I was afraid that there
Would be an avalanche of bones.
That face that I hold so dear has become deflated
Leaving behind folds of emptiness, his eyes
Knowing that he has lived the majority of the
Years given to him. The map of his life shown
So openly that it hurt my eyes.
Age is relative. For seeing him become an old
man has made me realized that I am older as well.
Not a young girl anymore, but a middle aged woman
Making a life map of her own.
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