I'm Still in the Room

I’m older now, but aren't we all?

Maybe not the kind of older that drifts off mid‑sentence

or forgets why it walked into the kitchen.

I’m the kind that watches the world tilt a little

and thinks, "Well, that’s new."

And watches as it tilts right back.

I know the look people give old folks,

The one who has decided your hearing went to heaven before you did.

They lean in, raise their eyebrows,

and speak as if you're three states away.

You bite your tongue to keep from saying,

"I can hear you just fine,

I’m ignoring you today."

Clerks call me “little sweetheart,”

as if I’ve shrunk into something ornamental.

I smile the kind of smile

That lets them know I’ve lived long enough

to recognize condescension in all its ugly disguises.

In church, I sit through a sermon

that wanders like a lost dog,

And I thank myself quietly

for staying awake,

for catching every drifting word,

for keeping my mind sharp

even when the message isn’t.

My friends haven’t aged me out yet,

And I’m grateful.

We trade stories like baseball cards,

Compare new aches like weather reports,

and laugh at the way our bodies

have started filing complaints

without our permission.

But relevance. Yes, relevance.

That’s the real work.

Not clinging to what was,

But staying curious about what’s next.

Learning new jokes,

new music,

new ways the world insists on spinning.

I’m older, yes.

But I’m still here.

still listening,

still learning,

still refusing to be dismissed

as a relic or a thought or a prayer.

And if the day comes

When someone speaks to me

as if I’ve already slipped from view,

I’ll lean in, smile,

and say it plain and true,

“I’m not gone, moron. I’m still in the room.”

wcd