Visions of Aging

I look forward to aging,

not with fear,

but with reverence—

like a Black woman

greeting dawn

with her head held high

and her spirit

already awake.

Let my gray hair grow

curly and silver,

coiled like moonlight,

twisting with wisdom,

crowning me

in soft thunder

and light.

Let the years sit

in my strands

like stories

God personally wrote.

I want my wrinkles

dramatic—

not shy,

not hidden.

Bold lines of testimony

across my face.

Maps of survival.

Roads I walked

barefoot

through grief,

through joy,

through becoming.

Let my veins rise

bright green,

visible proof

that life

kept choosing me.

That blood

kept moving.

That breath

kept staying.

My glasses

may be bifocals,

but I will still see

beauty clearly.

Tracing the creases

in my forehead.

Following the lines

in my hands

like sacred scripture.

Reading my own history

with tenderness.

Let my voice grow raspy,

seasoned with time,

carrying the tone

of an old soul

who has prayed

in silence,

laughed in storms,

and learned

when to be still.

Aging for me

is not loss.

It is praise.

Each year

a Hallelujah.

Each birthday

a testimony.

Each gray hair

a thank you note

to God.

One step closer

to the next chapter.

One breath closer

to rest.

One night closer

to drifting into sleep

and seeing angels,

and the bright light,

and the peace

that doesn’t ask questions.

My heart

will be at rest.

Because growing old

will mean

I stayed.

I lived.

I endured.

I loved.

I survived heartbreak.

I outlasted sorrow.

I moved

with the ebbs and flows

of life

and didn’t let them

drown me.

Growing old

will mean

I chose life

again

and again

and again.

And that—

that

is holy.