You would think that

Being seventy-five I would know things

Have wise woman insights

And discernment

That I would not be subject to petty fears and confusion

You would think that

The specter of death just around the corner

Would eliminate all but profound thoughts

And that I would be

Like Mother Teresa but Jewish

You would think that all my years of experience

Of love and loss and apathy and passion

Would have made me a sage

With sage advice

And wise words for all

But instead I am dumb with few words, wise or otherwise

I have sparse and threadbare recommendations for how to live

Instead I am reduced to saying little

Or better yet, nothing at all.