Justin: In the Feast of Being Able to. Amen.


August 26, 2012

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

I’m here. Right here, standing at the border taking deep breaths, psyching myself up to step across. No, no. To be pushed across. I’m about to be forty.

I look over that line and not a thing looks different there than here. I feel the same weather, the warmth of the same sun, and the breeze that knows no boundaries. The unmowed grass in the yard just flows back and forth smoothly, and its not easy to see where the neighbor’s yard begins. Just four borders around me that I’m suddenly reminded are imaginary.

You know, you could take all the yard markers from a football field…. all the identifying marks of every kind except for the sidelines (the boundaries) and the goal lines (the beginning and the end) and you could still have a full fledged football game. The yard lines are just way points along the push to the goal line.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

I keep crossing these yard markers, but this year is a milestone. Forty. It is cause to stop and think back on how I have spent my 30’s. Time to consider what I have done that will last when I have crossed that very, very last milestone at which I am precisely aimed.

No further enumeration here, I’m just saying. This is what turning 40 feels like for me; introspection and epic awe of the compounding nature of time’s passing. And that’s when I think on it, which I hardly have.

I could write another Lovesong for Prufrock. I’d make it American, removing the tea for coffee, replacing the marmalade with donuts. The men in windows with sleeves get to be bald men in convertibles.

Someday I’ll have a Jag. It will be used and have high miles, but someday…

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