Old Rooms
In this Body, by Gary Whited
There are rooms
that close their doors.
Years pass
and a breeze moves through.
Maybe it was the look of that man
with red hair and heavy hands,
or the woman crossing the street
with the soft fingers
and far away stare.
A door blows open slightly,
the hinges barely agree.
Behind that door
there’s a small child
who wants you
to call him by name. 
I find myself often living as if I am still a younger version of myself, saying yes to more obligations than I should, getting less sleep than I ought, trying out HIIT workouts with lots of jumping (a lousy idea for many reasons). Until, that is, my body reminds me that indeed I’ve aged. Yet, I am often reluctant to heed the invitation toward a new version of my body. And by this, I think I am also saying I am reluctant to allow the doors to some rooms of my life to be closed.
This week, the realization for this hit as I navigated the build up to my daughter attending prom for the first time. Late summer this year she’ll turn 18, and then she’ll begin her senior year of high school. Many of the friends who were born the same year as her are graduating this month. It’s a wild ride to watch unfold.
Doors have closed to my body and on my life, it is true. It’s a strange thing to consider when it seems like the doors that are opening for my daughter were just opening for me such a short time ago. And it is also true that sometimes those doors creak open and behind them is a younger me looking out, asking me to remember.
This sort of time travel happened to me this week as I drove my daughter to her swim practice. Right in front of my car, swooped a Red-winged black bird as we drove our country rode. They’re one of my favorite birds, symbolizing protection and inner strength through change. Yet, it was the door that creaked open to a thirty-something me with my young 6-year-old daughter waving at me that halted my spin of thoughts.
All those years ago, I discovered the music of a band called Steel Wheels on a vacation to Ocracoke, NC. We happened to be on the island during the annual folk festival and arrived at the festival just as the Steel Wheels were making their way to the small stage. There I heard them sing Red Wing (which you can listen to by clicking the name). My small girl fell in love with that song, and so did I. For more than two years after, we played the CD I bought at that festival on the car player over and over.
I have heard that the story of this song is in part a story of the lead singer, Trent’s, history of music with his grandfather, and his grandfather’s story. But for me, it’s a story of my daughter and me and a shared love. When that bird flew in front of me and stopped on a small tree beside the road, I remembered that song and a creaky door to this past me, this past daughter of mine, swung open.