Wednesday, August 10, 2016



     I’m afraid I have aged a bit like old cheese – thick skin with some places with old mold, harder inside, drier and a but smelly. I have a really nutty flavor.  As I’ve seasoned and mellowed, the bright flavors of my youth are now there blended ways.

     Parts of my heart are worn like the wooden steps up to the monastery, worn down by having to do so many trips for penance.

     My brain is like a vase of flowers which has not sustained its vibrancy and so has begun to fade. That’s why I blog – in hopes of refreshing them.

     My shape is now pear but I’m dieting. Who isn’t? My hair is white with imaginings of the red which was once there.

     Aged Love seems to love what was once there, or see what was once there in what is now here.


     To share my disappointment at a couple of my failures, I guess.  I won’t bore you with more than two.

     I had hoped to age like a leather biker’s jacket which has been burnished by wind and weather. The one with the large, semi-fading embroidered patch: “Riding For The Lord!” But that didn't work out.

     But, to become weathered, road-weary and have that kind of smile, you have to have had that kind of life. Apparently non-adventurous young men look, well a little apologetic and having been so self-protective when they are older men.  No pins in the joints with great stories here. The closest I have come is arthritis for no apparent reason.

     I have more than a few tiny cracks along the outer edge of my desk top. There are more than a few divots. I also now regret sticking my scout knife into the surface. I have tried to touch it up and stain back those initials I carved years ago. All those self-inflicted defects mean that I frequently punch holes in my notebook paper memory as I write.


     The touch of aged love anticipated touch, the long-time touch, the expected touch. The touch which never really stopped. The deep connection. The separation which is never really separate.

     The taste of aged love is a taste which has become smoother and more mellow each year.

     The smile of aged love is that of a 20-year-old which lights up from the 60-something’s face.

     A wink is STILL as good as a nod to a blind man. Know what I mean? Know what I mean?

Copyright 2015, Jean W. Yeager
All Rights Reserved

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