Will it really matter
when I turn eighty
that I can’t remember seventy, fifty or twenty?
Will it really matter
when I’m old and on a walker
that I can’t remember running through mowed grass or spring heather?
Enough that I ran; enough that I stumbled
Enough that I hungered and read many books
Enough that our house held children and laughter
Enough that I lived in London, Paris and Rome.
None of that fit in my pocket or handbag
None of that lasted any longer than now
None of that occupied more than its being
None of that lived beyond a moment in time.
Now in this room
in silence and sitting
I live what is happening
right here and right now.
Old age and tears, love, sickness and boredom,
grab all my attention riveting me here.
How can I hold more than I am holding—
how can I experience more than I’m feeling right now?
Really, really, does it matter if I remember nothing at all?
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