More Than Seventy Years


Having lived now more than seventy years; seventy, I
think, how shall I unravel all that back to the
beginning? A long and twisting tangle whenever I
stop to imagine all those many days, like a child
peeking through my fingers pressed against my eyes
fearing to see some horror on me descend. All those
moments and days, I think, those years I thought
would never end when in their midst. The woman,
young woman, child, I see reflected back
in many time-fractured mirrors is not me-not me, yet
they are all me.

Seventy years, more than seventy now, have I lived
finding in each recollection that seems to come
unbidden at odd moments now to haunt, and if I
were to add them all up, all those days and days, well
I would have to use my math mind, that little
calculator blessed with its clear thinking math genius,
one I had to acquire having a very limited one of my
own, I could, if I wished, add up all the seconds,
minutes, hours, days, months and years, yet I hesitate
not truly wishing to define them in such a calculating,
impersonal way, and, yes, those numbers could never
astound me as the memories do.

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