ROSEMARY ESEHAGU

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CHANGING TIMES

My time has passed.
I am dry, wrinkled, and withered,
my mirror tells me.
I smell like decaying something…
My joints complain about me.
My mind, bored and idle, wonders about my purpose,
my usefulness to it.

My teeth leave me.
My eyes do not want to see me.
My ears don’t want to hear my thoughts.
My nose doesn’t want to smell me—
it shuts down, I struggle to breathe,
I faint—my heart fails me.

My body—eyes, ears, all of it—awake
hopeful of a new something…
of new sights to see, new paths to follow,
or of being back to the time of dancing in the rain,
of complaining about the restrictions of youth,
of joyful cries of “Nnem, Nnem”—Mommy, mommy—
of swinging shakeres, singing lips, or dancing hips,
back to the time when the mouth spoke wisdom
and was respected,
back to the time of…
But then my body realizes it’s still just me: wrinkly and gray.

My heart receives a blow,
and my body shuts down again.
Why is it no longer my time?