Newsroom Anchors, Just Shut Up!

The headlines keep barking from the corner of the room, like they’re trying to remind me the world’s on fire again. I let them talk. I’ve lived long enough to know they’ll still be shouting long after I’m gone.

Seventy‑five years! Imagine that.

A number that once sounded ancient

now fits me like an old jacket:

broken‑in, frayed at the cuffs,

still warm in the right places.

But there’s no denying it,

Somewhere inside, a little clock ticks.

Not loud, not dramatic,

just steady enough to make itself known

When the house gets quiet

and the news anchors start their nightly sermons

about everything falling apart.

Funny thing is, I don’t feel done.

I feel like I’ve finally learned the shape of myself,

Finally figured out how to carry the weight

without dropping it every few steps.

And now time decides to tap me on the shoulder

like a waiter clearing the table

before I’ve finished the last bite.

Still, the sky softens at the end of the day,

And I soften with it.

The world can rage, the news can howl,

But I’ve earned this calm,

this small, stubborn peace

That comes from knowing I’ve made it this far

And I’m not done watching the sun go down

on my own terms.

wcd