Invisible by Cynthia Gilmore

Photo by Timon Studler via Unsplash

Old women are invisible. But in a way, it’s our superpower. Not chosen but imposed upon by a culture enamored of youth. A wrinkle-free obsession that suffers our presence with indifference. Neglected voices of wisdom, gentled by a lifetime of living. 

But we know better. We remember the dismissed notions of our girlhood, the brief window of approval when physical beauty inspired tolerance cloaked in desire. The sacrifice and sorrows of our forebears. They’re all here. The girl, the daughter, the woman, the mother, the crone. Maybe we should thank you for our obscurity and insouciance. Because we’ve grown while you were distracted. Our bodies bear the passage of time, but our insight is worthy.

So, thank you, to the man who wouldn’t give up his seat on the bus so I could teeter on two arthritic legs instead. Maybe you had a tough day. Maybe the seat was all the power you could claim.

Thank you, airline passenger who nearly knocked me over rushing to your seat to stow a bag before others took a precious inch of overhead real estate. It was a full flight.

Thank you, customer service agent who disconnected our call in the middle of my housing inquiry, it takes a moment to write things down. But you must have had other callers. 

Thank you, doctor, for leaving me for your next patient with a diagnosis and a million questions. Their situation must have been worse.

Thank you, restaurant server, for rolling your eyes when I asked if the coffee was decaffeinated; my heart is easily disturbed. But you didn’t know that.

Thank you, cashier, for smirking at the young man behind me while I wrote my grocery check; he seemed amused by your gestures. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.

Thank you, shopper, for taking the last handicapped parking space. Your harried pace implied an impressive urgency for assorted cheeses and wine, as observed from my walker. I hope the party was joyful.

Thank you, neighbor, for questioning my desire to return to college. Your concern was heartfelt but misguided. I still have passion for things; for life, for knowledge, for the future. We’re not dead yet.

We who’ve endured the passage of time know the heartbreak and insufferable pain this life can confer, and we survived. We know you will lose. Lose what you thought insurmountable. Love, family, friends, pets, jobs, money, your self-esteem, your health. Your heart, if you let it. Don’t lose your heart. Because pain will transform you. It can carry you with unimaginable grace. To whatever comes next. Just like us. We wish you peace and joy on the twisted path we share. Most of the time.

Your life will touch others in ways you’ll never know. Make it good. Make the world better with your compassion. Be patient, say hello, be curious, be understanding. And most importantly, don’t be a dumbass. Or you’ll end up alone.

Cynthia Gilmore lives in North Carolina and works at the library. She once wrote for a local newspaper and has been published by The New York Times and other journals. Cynthia spends hours untangling things or picking lint off sweaters when she could be writing for her dearmomm.com blog or deflecting uncomfortable truths with humor.