When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple
I was talking to Dave Monday night, and telling him how I was kind of excited to be old. I want to move to the South and sit on my porch with my shotgun. I want to throw pottery in my barn, and I want to spend nights camped out on our trampoline. And I want to splatter paint and not worry about washing the paint off the walls. Just once I want to chase children off the grass- just to see what it feels like to be a crotchety old woman. I want to drive a beat-up, old Chevy. I want to sit out on my roof at night and watch the stars above, and the cars file past below. I want to pretend like I can't hear, and holler into the telephone. I want to go wading in a river, with my dress hiked up well beyond my knees. I want to sneak candy to the children who sit in the pews in front of me at church. I want to hog the swings at the park, and chase the little dogs with my umbrella. I want to wiggle my toes in the grass, and sit in the trees with the birds. I want to cover my walls, and ceiling for that matter, with art. I want to squeeze the life from oranges and drink the juice each morning, and I want to brew coffee each morning just for it's pungent odor. I'll whistle at the boys playing basketball in the park without their shirts on. I want to stroll under the trees while holding my husband's hand, slowing down the traffic. He read this poem to me- it captures what I want PRECISELY- and sent me off on a tangent of what I'd like to be like. I love, love, love it.
