He loves me, he loves me not…?

Mindful Moments

He loves me, he loves me not I whisper it softly now,

a woman in her sixties

with silver in her hair

and stories in her bones.

It is the way he looks at me.

Not politely.

Not absentmindedly.

But as if he truly sees me.

And suddenly

I am sixteen all flutter and fire,

checking my reflection,

feeling that reckless spark

rise up again.

In my sixties,

Imagine that.

They say these are the golden years,

as if longing should be packed away

with old letters and fading photographs.

But the heart does not grow sensible with age.

It still races.

It still risks.

Am I too old for this?

Too wise for butterflies?

Will it last through the quieter years ahead,

through reading glasses and careful plans?

He loves me, he loves me not.

I do not know.

But when his hand finds mine,

when his eyes linger

as though I am not past my prime

but fully, beautifully myself

I feel alive.

And perhaps that is enough.

He loves me, he loves me not

in his gaze,

in my sixties,

I am sixteen again