Abigail Thomas

Word Count 232

I’m just walking through a room full of things I’ve collected, or made, or found, or been given, all things I love to look at, and here it comes--that twinge, a freshly minted but by now familiar reminder that I’m mortal. And not just any old garden-variety mortal-- at eighty I’m more mortal than ever. Next I endure an unpleasant moment during which it feels like I’m dead already and in mourning, and then life resumes. Twinges by definition don’t stick around, although they recur with unnerving frequency. An hour later I am staring at what is taking shape in my handful of clay, and again with the twinge. I get it, okay? Mortal. You can stop now. Except there is no you. 

But now I’m curious. What other physical manifestations of the abstract are there?   There’s panic and depression, and fear and grief, and then my mind goes blank until I remember desire. Of course, good old desire! Polar opposite to death twinges, but close cousins. Speaking of which, this afternoon I watched a young man shoving his shirt down into his jeans, which made me acutely aware of his possibly naked body inside those jeans, which led me to wonder, I’m sorry to say, about his penis. More specifically, and completely out of the blue, its  length and breadth. His girlfriend stood nearby, waiting while he sorted himself out. I tried to study her face to determine whether she was a girl who cared what kind of penis she was dealing with, but concluded you never can tell. 

Who am I kidding? We all care.

So okay, the clock is ticking, but at least I’m not a man with a skinny little penis. No reflection on the young man today. For all I know he may be hung like a horse. Let’s hope so. After all, I could go any minute. Might as well end on a high note.

Abigail has four children, twelve grandchildren, one great grandchild, two dogs, and a high school education. Her books include Safekeeping; A Three Dog Life; and What Comes Next and How to Like It. She lives in Woodstock, NY.