Schrodinger’s Old Man

The rain falls hard on the streets outside.
I’m by the fire, a gin and tonic in hand.
Middle age has come like a cold wind,
not with a warning but suddenly,
like the silence before a storm.

There is no mistaking it.
The young man I was,
the one who chased the sun and the nights,
has slipped away without me noticing.

Now, I’m here.
And I’m not here.
Half-alive, half-gone,
waiting for something,
maybe nothing.

Christmas is always the same.
The tree in the corner,
the same old ornaments,
the same hands wrapping presents.
The faces of those I’m with, familiar but distant,
like people I could have known,
if I had been someone else.

I think of the cat in the box.
Alive, dead, or both.
Maybe that’s what I am.
Half-man, half-memory,
waiting for a door to open,
for something to decide.

But it doesn’t matter.
The fire crackles,
the gin goes down smooth.
And outside, the rain is falling.
It’s Christmas.
And I’m here,
and I’m not.