Living My Whole Life

(after Zeno of Elea’s “dichotomy paradox”)


I forget exactly where I may have
been, when I passed that
rude, somewhat intimidating
marker that informed me, “You have
now lived half your life.”

It must have been somewhere on the
highway to Guadalajara, that
little sign swallowed by hills
and cacti bigger than houses
hidden here and there, harboring other

lives, families and warmth.
I remember looking into the sky
twinkling with galaxies, not
long afterward, and I knew that
only half my life was left.

I was shaken by the little notice;
it seemed so personal. But emboldened
by knowing that I still had not
reached the midpoint of my life’s
next measure, I moved onward into

the spaces in eternity that continually
opened, granting me passage. I know
more years went by, although
I wasn’t counting them. And
then my first granddaughter was born.

One day as I helped her rifle through her
toy box I found a little anonymous note
addressed to me, her happy eyes
so near mine, brighter than blue diamonds.
“You’ve now reached the midpoint

“of what remained,” it read.
And now, in days that seem
to fill my shoes like sand,
my feet are heavy, but there is
always the next half of a half

to complete. Infinite time
seems to become shorter and shorter,
halving and re-halving itself, yet
always, there is more of it, waiting:
it is utterly impossible to die.