She is at the age where
Instagram serves her ads for Botox,
at the age where faint wrinkles indent
the edges of her cheeks, and it seems
her skin is a problem to be solved, as if
“She smiled too much” could be written
on her gravestone.
In her twenties, she almost lost
a job because she was
“too nice.” Still, they hired her.
Now she’s old enough to know
there’s nothing nice about
people-pleasing.
She heard on a podcast that
when women face menopause,
our bodies and minds will suffer,
the suffering is real
but she’s letting go
of the idea that her best days
are behind her — she’s holding onto
her smile, she’s determined to live
the next 40 years concerned with
her own pleasure.
She’s driving into a new decade, windows down,
hair dancing in the breeze, Kacey Musgraves cranked
loud, singing “I’ve got to take care of myself,” she’s
feasting on salmon, pasta and chocolate, walking
into rooms with her head held high, lifting weights
and finding her own strength, making waves, making
goals, making love, devouring — and making — juicy poems.
Midlife is a death sentence?
She’s not letting herself go
there. At 39, she’s on the cusp of
becoming. Her gravestone will read:
She wrote and lived beautiful stories.
Until the end, she held onto
her smile.
// This post is part of a blog hop with author Lindsay Swoboda in support of her book Holding On and Letting Go: A Life in Motion.
Click here to view the next post in the series.
Erin Strybis 