Age is just a number, or so they say. There’s of course more to it than that. Age is the product of one’s mind and body being subjected to innumerable influences, some beneficial and some detrimental. There’s actual changing, not just a count of passes through the turnstile of years. Possibilities shrink, horizons constrict.

I haven’t been bothered all that much by growing older. Three-quarters of my life or more is behind me, but I still felt physically healthy and mentally alert. I’m not able to climb mountains or run marathons—or even see well at night or reliably pull words from memory—but most capacities seem intact or nearly so.

So birthdays weren’t an issue, at least not until this year. In June, I turned 76. That somehow seems much older than 75. I’m not sure what the difference is. Maybe it’s that 80 looms closer, and that landmark seems not just old in a still-vibrant way but old-old. Maybe I’m comparing myself to my dad, who traveled to Europe at 75 (though it was a strain for him) but in just a few more years was showing signs of dementia. Maybe it’s that I seem to be hearing lots more stories of people about my age needing institutional care, developing dire medical problems, or dying.

So I’ve been trying to cope. I live in a house whose residents are mostly in their 20s and 30s. Old or not, I wouldn’t want to change places with them. I appreciate my life’s worth of experiences, both because of the richness of the memories and because of the value of the lessons they taught me. I like it that qualities such as perspective, judgment, and patience—likely signs of maturity—have grown with time. There’s loss, but there’s also gain.

Since writing poetry is one of my ways of processing what happens to me, I decided to write a poem about being 76. In popular culture when I was young, that particular number was associated with a song—“Seventy-Six Trombones,” from “The Music Man,” a musical about a con man who convinces a gullible small town that he can save their youth from juvenile delinquency by creating a band, led specifically by that number of trombones. The song is rousing, which I like. The poem references not just my age but that musical number. Here it is:

Seventy-six, just one more 
than seventy-five--the number
said to lead the big parade, 
sound scampering around the sliding 
tubing and blaring out the bell. 
I’m not trombone-minded now; 
I’m shadowy and solemn,
a bow pulled slowly over cello strings. 

Seventy went past without a sound.
-one and -two were fine, humming
with a tone of quiet satisfaction. 
Seventy-four brought a little more, 
since it was a year of death, 
though that was welcome mercy 
Midway through my septepule span, 
all still seemed decent, 
though without particular delight. 
Then, unexpectedly, 
along came seventy-six. 

My body is a crucible for aches. 
Skin sags and puckers in unslightly ways. 
The plans and purposes that most days carry 
have shrunk remarkably. 

Did I take a wrong turn to wind up here? 
No, this is where time’s travel carries everyone. 
The journey started with breath 
into the mouthpiece, ran forward 
out the slide, then bent back 
to make full circuit, turned delightful 
only at the end. Why would 
I want to miss the music?