I never thought my mother’d be alive
this long, the way the woman used to smoke.
She’s slowing down at 90, but she’ll drive
her car to stores nearby, until the stroke
of 3 when the commuters clog the streets.
Returning what she purchased yesterday
gives purpose to her mornings. She repeats
her words in every evening’s call, the way
she always did, if I’m to tell the truth.
She’s not demented but she has condensed –
the traits that drove me crazy in my youth
are just more obvious performed against
a narrowed backdrop, faded arid beige,
and vanity’s the anthem of her age.

This entry was posted in Aging, Family, Poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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