“You have osteoporosis”, the doctor says. “It’s in your spine and hip”.

I stare at him and blink, once, twice, possibly three times. He may as well have just said, ” You are old.” He writes on his blue prescription pad, tears off the sheet, and then hands me the crisp paper. ” This medication will slow down the process, so it won’t advance any further.”

I get into my car afterwards and head home. ” Old, old,” the tires sing as they grip the pavement; the first dry pavement I’ve seen in weeks.

Time is a determined ocean, holding me in her gentle embrace while covertly eroding pieces of me. Inside I am crumbling like the bluffs surrounding a shore-line. My bones are being ground and sifted into flour with each passing year.

Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum

The wood guy shows up shortly after my arrival home. He dumps a mountain of soft and hard wood beside my shed and when I invite him inside in order to pay him, he tells me about his lovely daughter who married a man from the Canary islands. She lives there now with him and his family, and when she writes home describes the immaculate cities and strong family ties. The Canary islands are off the coast of Africa and belong to Spain. Maybe I’ll go there one day.

After the wood guy leaves, I notice a distinct odor of alcohol.

I pull on my snow pants, coat, hat, scarf, mitts and boots and head out to the shed, bringing along a flash-light for when the light begins to fade. The pile of wood is enormous, but it needs to be hauled inside the shed and neatly stacked before I can go back inside. I sigh.

The previous evening I was forced to chip away a thick ridge of ice that had built up under the shed doors, which subsequently prevented either one of them from opening. It meant getting down on my hands and knees and utilizing my fire place poker as a pick axe. Each blow to the frozen ground reverberated up my arm and into my neck. Half an hour later I was able to open one door, but I had become so stiff, I could scarcely pull myself to my feet.

It took three hours of continuous hauling and stacking last night, before the cord was neatly stacked inside my shed. The light had faded and it was now dark. The wind had also picked up and the temperature had nose-dived well below zero. I limped into the house.

After warming and eating a bowl of chicken stew I found myself in front of the mirror.

Mirror, Mirror on the wall

Whose the fairest one of all?

“Forget fairest”, the mirror said. ” Try oldest”

There was a message on my phone from my daughter Mariko who is currently involved in a boat building apprenticeship in Maine. She is convinced that I have an un-diagnosed case of Lyme disease and that if I don’t do something about it, it will eventually cause dementia, if it hasn’t already.

We get to talking about art, writing, and music. I tell her that for some odd reason, current Top 40 hits have a strange appeal for me (normally I detest Top 40), and that I now find myself liking almost every song.

” Like what?” she asks.

” Well Rhiannon, for instance”

” Mom, its Rhianna. See, the dementia has begun already”.

I tell her about the recent play-lists I’ve discovered of dance music, and how much I love them. There’s the Latino play-list of dance music, and also a Romanian one, although all the songs are in English.

” The accordion appears to be back in vogue”, I say, and she laughs.

” Are you sure you haven’t just amassed a collection of polka music that you are confusing with dance mix? Oh my God, mom, the dementia has begun in earnest.”

I now have a case of the giggles. I am beyond exhausted and stiff from hauling and stacking wood, and I’ve been awake since 5:00 am. I’m also still slightly in shock that a body that appears so strong from the outside has crumbling bones on the inside.

” Jada, likes my music” I say. (Jada is my youngest daughter, and we seem to share the same taste in music.)

” I doubt she likes polka music”

” It isn’t polka music, ” I insist. ” I’ll send you the links to my play-lists to prove it. And by the way, both Jada and I like Lady Gaga”.

” Oh my God.”

” Have you even listened to her?” I ask.

” Of course”

“Then name at least two of her songs.”

” Paparazzi and Poker Face, for starters” she says.

” I love those songs” I exclaim, and then we both dissolve into laughter.

” Send me the links to your play-list tomorrow, and copy Jada in on them. We’ll see if she shares your taste in music.”

” Ok, but send me the links to your favorite music so I can see what you like.”

We end the phone call. I crawl into bed, turn out the lights, and stare into the darkness.

I run my hand over the contours of my body, beginning with my arms. I’ve developed an impressive set of Popeye forearms from all the snow shoveling I’ve been doing this winter. My body feels lean and strong.

Tomorrow I will go to the pharmacy and fill the prescription the doctor gave me.