Don’t call me senior. I’m old. This is what old is, looks like, sounds like. My old may not smell like your granny. My old moves slow. Stand aside. Wait for me. Hold the door.
My old eats cooked vegetables. So take me to that restaurant. My old says f**k too, so give me that freedom. My old is curious and just because I can’t remember your name doesn’t mean I can’t hear you.
Oh, and sometimes I can’t hear you.
My old needs your company. They just told me loneliness kills. I already knew that.
My old loves to ride the bus, to look out, to see the changes on Clark Street from Chinatown to Rogers Park. My old likes change. Did you hear I didn’t?
My old feels close to heaven—like how much closer can I get? Like, can I get closer without moving into the next day, or the next week, or the next minute?
Yeah, so don’t call me senior. I’m just old.
6 thoughts on “Don’t Call Me Senior”
Your old is amazing!!!😘
Love this one, Regan. Please keep them coming, OK?
excellent. I love your writing!!! You old hippy, you!!
Regan–this one grabbed me. Love “my old” as the focus, the repetition in different ways, and the direct requests of the reader. I have to admit, I almost didn’t read it because of the title! I thought I might know what was coming. Instead, where you went felt fresh and powerful.
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Interesting. I’ve been toying with writing a blog post for our Safe & Sound blogabout how the “what should you call us” question comes up with: two important groups in my life: the writers in the classes I lead, and the people I write about for my job at Easterseals (people with disabilities? Handicapped? Cripps? Differently abled?) This post today gives me more inspiration to tackle that subject. Thank you.