I Don't Have Time to Apologize

In Bari a woman apologized for her age. In Paris a man told me his age and then immediately said sorry, as though the number itself required forgiveness. He was forty nine, fluent in three languages, had lived a life full enough to fill the bookshelves I went straight for when I walked into his apartment. And he apologized.

I don't understand this.

I have had white hair since I was twenty one. I have wrinkles now. I wore a wrap dress in Italy that fit way too close and showed every curve and I wore it anyway because I said fuck it. The village noticed in the best possible way. Not in a "You're too old" or "You can't do that at your age", just normal. No big crucifiction in the square, many compliments but i digress that's another story for another day. I am forty six years old and I am not apologizing for any of it.

My father died at forty five. My mother at fifty one. I am older than my father ever got to be. I think about that more than I probably should and also exactly as much as I need to.

There is a particular freedom that comes from understanding early that time is not guaranteed. Most people live as though they have unlimited runway. I have never had that luxury and I stopped pretending otherwise a long time ago. It makes me impatient with small things and ferociously attentive to large ones.

I told the man in Paris that his age didn't change anything. Because it didn't.

I am going to get older. The white hair is not going anywhere. The wrinkles will accumulate. My body is doing what bodies do when they have been lived in for a while and I find I have very little patience for apologizing about it.

I have paintings to make. Things to say. Places to be. People to find in unexpected places, in unplanned moments.

I don't have time to apologize. I'm not sure I ever did.

Jackie