Aging

A towel would cover me down to my knees,
Now I can't have it on my shoulders,
The coldness not just in my feet

Fitting into clothes from my father,
No longer getting dresses with flowers,
It makes me a woman not a daughter.

I hope now that I have finished raging
(Can't stand getting any taller)
That I will finally accept this abstract aging.

But what is it to be what is called 'older'?
Is it a gaining of wisdom and love
Or the loss of something greater?