95 year-old Woman and an 8 year-old Girl in a 26 year-old Body

If it had been ten years ago, ten months ago, ten weeks ago, from today I might have been able to tell you that the flowers in the field, their bright colors, tasted just as good as they looked. I’d bite into one—punch—apple, lemon, orange. Their juices, their souls would have dripped from my thick lips.

But now, my lips, once broad with desire, have gotten smaller, almost vanishing just like all the important things I have love in my young and old life.

I pluck a blossom today, a lavender one. I take a bite. Taste nothing.

Like a 95 year-old woman, I have forgotten how to taste . . . to love.