Sunday, December 8, 2019

The Late Years Fifty-Nine


Photo of my mother's mother, Grace Roys in China in 1913, In her lap, Richard, by her, my mother, Margaret.

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The Late Years Fifty-Nine  December 8, 2019

Each day darker and colder. We enter 
Saturn and Saturnalia. Last November
seems so far away. I drove that flock
to Clayton and arrived, despite getting
lost. Drove back in pouring rain, got
rescued by the grandmother and then
scolded: “Don’t you have a son?”
“He’s at work.” “A grandson?” “He’s
in school.” She drove to find me and 
I followed her back. It was pouring rain. 
They wanted cash. I barely had enough.
On the way home I lost a windshield
wiper, but the hens were processed. 
This year’s flock is unmanageable. They
sleep outside at night. They are weeding
the garden. I fell a year ago, also in
November. I’m recovering again. Slowly.
More afraid of falling. She recommended 
P.T., and then I fell because my body 
wanted to run, and I didn’t. It took weeks 
for my black eye to heal. I have to remember. 
People do help me. I rarely expect it, and
then they do. A lesson worth learning. 

More than I deserve, yet it helps.

Sunday, December 1, 2019

The Late Years Fifty-Eight


In its early time in my home, this orchid was so lively and beautiful. I need to help it live well again. 

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The Late Years Fifty-Seven December 1, 2019

Ever since I fell, almost two weeks ago, 
life has been so different. I’m not quite
the same person. My left cheek is still
purple. I have one little sore on my right
hand, and one on my left. I sleep ten
hours at a time, wake so slowly. I look
at things as if to learn them thoroughly
and never forget their true nature. I 
cover my legs with a warm, soft blanket
and wonder what will be next in my life.
My faithful truck has leaked all its 
steering fluid so I can’t drive it. I’m not
in great pain except in my fingers, but
I need them for typing, even for thinking.
I sat with hundreds of other people last 
June to hear Louise, my favorite author. 
She has hundreds of fans, thousands. I 
have my handful, but they’re all treasures.
I thought I’d be healed in a week, but
now it’s nearly two weeks. My faith was
dented, my confidence shaken. I didn’t
want to run, but my body did. I couldn’t
stop, only by falling. Yesterday people
kept helping me. The man at the collection
center did all my work. The young man at
the post office got my truck to move 
forward. I had tried, but I couldn’t do it.
Then Tim found the leak, not oil, but
power steering column fluid. Now I can’t
drive it at all. I can call AAA to have it
towed, but who can be trusted to fix it?
What will help me regain my spirit? Resume
my real life? Be my real self? Tim was angry
when I wouldn’t listen to him. I said I needed

to talk to myself first. Will my plan work?