Pagtanda, Amaya Wooding

Pagtanda

By Amaya Wooding

We did it, we have grown old. Not the false old of thirtyfive, but Grandma Fa old, raisin-wrinkled, jowls coaxed by gravity. Our face is so canyoned it falls under topography over dermatology. Gout, aches, and skin tags are middle fingers to our naysayers, the sideeffects of existence; mammograms and white-coated prostatepokesthemaintenanceofsurvival. We still have succulents in constellations of pots sewn throughout the yard. We are just as stubborn, juicy, colorful when stressed. What turns us colors? We are as old as our lola when she said she wouldn’t mind leaving life in her garden, surrounded by her flowers. Who are your flowers? Who has gone before us? Where are their bones?Wherewillyougiveyourselftotheearthandsky? We sometimes forget we are trans until we need to refill our estrogen. It is simply a thing we do, not a box built around us. We go to the store and find hormones in an aisle next to the allergy medicine, over the counter. How great have grown without walls? How far have we run withoutgates? We have pursued desire again and again. We had second puberty for our sex-gender, second and third childhood for our languages. What cycles do we now spiral and change? We have earned our lovers again and again. Who do we call love? How do we know it Are wesurprised?