Fantasy of growing old

Ten years from now
I step barefoot
out of the back door
into my slippers,
right foot and then left,
three careful steps down
to a gravel path
turn left and down the road.
It is raining lightly.
The rain has covered the asphalt
with a clear skim of water
that captures the reflection
of the trees that hold the peace
of a whole rainy day
that lies ahead
and I look neither left nor right,
down this alley
of that short cut
behind my neighbor's flat,
but straight ahead
and slightly down.
And I think only simple thoughts
such as where I am going or
why didn't I grab my umbrella
or looking forward to seeing my friend
who will be expecting
my knock
and how she will have
brewed a pot of tea
and how she knows
my favorite mug,
the one with the Sanskrit prayer
that she offered to give me once
but I said, I would rather have it
be here waiting for me
when I show up
in my slippers
at your door.