There used to be a woman living here – the oldest member of our H.O.A. and mean as spit, abusive, raining fear and loathing till they carted her away (a memory care unit has her now). But in those days, she did her part and more – she gardened, vacuumed, hauled the bins, knew how to scream and bitch, but also do a chore.
And I, then second-oldest, also toiled. I paid the common bills and kept the books. When she was gone I took on more, and tried enlisting others – young and acting spoiled. I didn’t yell. But all I got were looks, no matter that my words are dignified.
I must have been too young to know my mind. I fought against her coldness and contempt, but damaged Mom was hiding how she’s kind.
I thought her rules were calculating, blind to every goal and effort I’d attempt. I must have been too young to know my mind.
She seemed too busy, deaf to me and blind, as if my best ambitions she’d preempt, but damaged Mom was hiding how she’s kind.
When I resisted any role assigned to me by her, I thought I was exempt. I must have been too young to know my mind.
It took three score of years and ten to find the empathy to gather what she dreamt, but damaged Mom was hiding how she’s kind.
At last, when she had thoroughly declined, I saw through eyes like hers the good she meant. I must have been too young to know my mind, but damaged Mom was hiding how she’s kind.
I know smart people lusting to belong among the class of writers who are famed. They want to fashion fiction or a song of which no other writer’d be ashamed. Imagining the honors to be claimed, the signings, the distinction day and night, they dream of when success will be obtained, but they can’t find the stamina to write.
As one they want to stand above the throng of readers not considered, never named. Distracted by the coffee, wine or bong, and seldom putting ink where topic’s aimed, they bide their time till inspiration’s flamed, when only work gives brilliance to that light. Intention’s by procrastination maimed, but they can’t find the stamina to write.
Their cravings are consistent and so strong, I don’t believe such passion can be blamed. But how they try to satisfy it’s wrong, and by no tactics little can be gained. I want their attitudes to be reframed, their efforts pushed to steady sturdy height. Advising, they respond by looking pained, but they can’t find the stamina to write.
It isn’t any secret. No one gamed the system. No one put them in their plight. The work produces more than can be trained, but they can’t find the stamina to write.
The buses still require masking here, and most of them will give you one for free. But there’s no substitute for bearing gear; at end of day, they make no guarantee your bus will have one left – uncivilly too many take too many and discard. Last night some would-be riders couldn’t be allowed to board – unmasked, their way was barred.
“I want the pill,” our ancient mother said, last week when she was suffering fatigue and urgent emptying of waste, instead of constipation’s regular beleague. She has her mind. No terminal disease besets her at the age of 96. Distrusting all her meds, she voices pleas of petulance, impatient for a fix.
We calmly then responded and explained it takes some time and interviews to kill. “Oh pooh. I gave it to you dad,” she claimed. Of course that wasn’t so. There was no pill, she wasn’t there, and it’s no mystery – she always has revised her history.
I think I wasn’t very good at sex, she stated recently, age 70. As if there were tutorials, complex, athletic, something like pornography. As if a mate who does my man expects his way with her to mimic his with me. I wonder they don’t know, though we share parts, the act involves both genitals and hearts.
The cottage where I live is in a yard behind a big brown-shingled Berkeley box containing four apartments. It’s not hard to relish quiet, rarely needing locks, for I’m unseen, unheard, just on my guard enough. It’s seldom anybody knocks. But lately maintenance work in front employs a friendly crew who can’t help making noise.
My bedtime habits were unchanged last night. The hour was the usual, the bed as comfortable as ever, and the light no brighter than the customary glow. Yet sleep was slow to come to me. No fright or worry filled my mind, but drowsy dreams successively sustained my inner sight. Too old to “level up,” today my head is solving every puzzle, quick and right.
A side sleeper since I was 17, I used the port side of the marriage bed and didn’t know how much that choice would mean (no matter where we moved we kept our edge). When we divorced I switched, and then was seen by kids to occupy the other half. For 30 years, my place has been (between the sheets) on left-side shoulder, hip and head. Of late I ache. I’ll try to change routine.
There isn’t any need to hurry. Fortune is deferring worry. Favors I don’t have to curry. Though my vision’s often blurry that’s from floaters, quite benign. I can now afford a soft decline.
