In my head, I am sixteen.
I know.
The mirror says sixty-two….
My hands say it too.
My knees complain when I climb the stairs.
And these days, people call me “Ma”.
Sometimes I turn around just to see who they are talking to.
Because surely, it cannot be me.
I swear I was sixteen just yesterday.
Jeez… I remember my first crush.
The way I could see him from across the room and suddenly forget what I was saying.
I remember my first kiss.
My friends.
Our silly songs.
The clothes we wore.
The afternoons that felt like they would never end.
And Back then, we had time…
Sooo much time.
We didn’t know how quickly it could go.
Now, when I want to call one of my friends,
I remember she is gone.
Another is gone too.
Another is still here,
but she no longer remembers me.
Sometimes I wonder if growing old is not just losing people,
but losing the little pieces of yourself that only existed with them.
And yet, here I am.
Still sixteen.
Just… sixty-two.
I still like pretty dresses.
I still like my skirts short.
I still like my face bright with makeup.
But now someone looks at me and says,
“Ma, at your age?”
At my age?
Which age abeg?
What is “my age” supposed to look like?
Am I supposed to stop liking pretty things just because my face has changed?
Am I supposed to dress quietly because my hair is grey?
Am I supposed to become less of a woman just because I have become an older one?
Sometimes I look in the mirror
and search for the girl I used to be.
She’s still there.
A little tired.
A little hidden.
But there.
And maybe that is the strange thing about getting old.
You don’t wake up one morning and feel sixty-two.
You just keep living.
Sixteen becomes twenty.
Twenty becomes thirty.
Children grow.
Friends leave.
Faces change.
And somehow,
you are still you.
Just carrying more years.
So yes,
I am sixty-two.
I know that.
But somewhere inside me, I feel like there is still a girl that is sixteen
waiting for tomorrow,
laughing too loudly,
falling in love too easily,
and thinking she has all the time in the world. 🌍
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