The Fixer’s Future

The mother was a fixer all her life,
who taught her little girl to people-watch
for make-overs, and labor as a wife
repairing every incidental botch.
She’d walk into a room and redesign
in mind the furniture and color scheme.
Maintaining that she couldn’t draw a line,
she took on tasks and errands as her theme.

The daughter didn’t mimic or conform,
but she stayed close and now can testify
that noticing what’s wrong creates a swarm
of negativity as years go by,
that grows an oldster hemmed in harsh refrains
who only feels alive when she complains.

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

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