Nothing Has Changed

At ten, getting older
was the whole point.
I stretched myself against doorframes,
celebrated every inch,
couldn't wait for tomorrow
to promote me into someone bigger.

Nothing has changed.

At twenty, I wore certainty
like a jacket two sizes too large.
I collected opinions
faster than experience,
confident the future
was merely waiting for my signature.

Nothing has changed.

By thirty, every gathering
included a discussion about mattresses,
back pain,
or whose knees had started forecasting rain.
We praised eight hours of sleep
with the zeal once reserved
for staying out until sunrise.

Someone announced they were "still young"
while standing up
with the careful choreography
of antique furniture.

Nothing has changed.

Only now I measure growth
less by inches than patience,
less by speed than recovery,
less by what I've gained
than what I've stopped pretending to need.

The child was racing toward adulthood.
The adult keeps glancing back
to see where the child went.

Nothing has changed.