Posted in happy

It’s that time.

It feels no different.

I was fifty-nine yesterday.

I’m still young.

Working.

Have children that come to visit.

That dreaded time now looms.

I’m getting old.

Soon I’ll be retiring.

Too old to work as advised by companies.

My bones will start to creak soon.

I’m sixty after all.

The term ‘grandma’ now feels rammed down my throat.

It’s not just having kids and them having their kids.

It’s old age.

Grey hair shouldn’t worry me when I skip colouring day of the month.

Wrinkles now shouldn’t worry me.

Skin starting to crease soon, shouldn’t make me feel old.

I’m only sixty.

I’ve still got my darling husband with me,

I still laugh.

We still go on holidays.

We still keep up with the grand kids.

It’s just a number.

Getting old isn’t about number but what happiness I’ve experienced.

It’s okay to be sixty.

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Everyone's life view prism is different.

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