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.