April 1
Too Be Fooled
I am a
fool. Maybe I like that role and maybe
I don’t. It
definitely generates good laughs. Even
for myself.
Once Dad fooled me by fibbing
my forty-something
sister was pregnant with
her fourth
child. He said, “She’s embarrassed
to tell
you.” I kept saying, “No, impossible. Oh man,
you’re
kidding, right? What will she do?” “April Fools.”
Then there
was the time my friend told me
about a
terrible parent she counseled who only
fed her
child Goldfish. I imagined filleting
tiny orange
fish and
frying them in a pan. Or maybe she ate them
whole,
dropping wiggling fish into her mouth like
in the
cartoons. There you have it, my gullibility. It’s not
a bad thing
being a fool, but it’s humiliating.
2. April 2
Mannerism
She’s
foolish, you can see it in the way she dresses,
forgetting
her age and her status. A woman of 60
should be
demure, short haired, graying, and sedate
of dress:
not so robust and youthful a walk nor a hunger
for the
bedroom. She laughs loudly and without
constraint—
and she
points: remember, it’s against Miss
Manner’s
rule, the
way she eats with gusto instead of dainty bites
She’s
foolish! She’ll never land a man acting that way.
April 3:
New Crayola
Colors
There’s Dill
Pickle green and Mud Puddle brown; there’s
Linoleum gray
and Scuff Mark orange. There’s
the purple
of a blueberry stain and red wine left
on a beige
table cloth—French’s yellow, Nosebleed red,
Wilted
Hydrangea white. There’s the blue shadows
under eyes
and Kinky Black mascara; Dog Gum pink,
and Grass
Stain green. There’s Plumber’s Grease gray
and Gangling
Cyst red-orange—Faint white
and Snow
Dirt Charcoal. There’s the blue of a pulsing
vein and Under
Fingernail taupe; Tangerine Rind
yellow-orange,
and Sundown lime; There’s Dry Skin
beige and
Melted Chocolate dun. Brain gray.
4.
New Fridge Delivered Today
On lines from Charles Wright
I
have nothing to say about the mess
left in dark spaces. Or why I live near the edge
of decomposition.
The edge of growing mold and black liquid,
a continent where penicillin runs rampant. Counsel
my inner
maid to recycle and scour often.
I
have nothing to say about the pile of dishes
in the
sink nor the vanity of immaculate housekeeping. I have
nothing
to say about women with honorable cleaning skills.
All
year I work like a bird breaking up the dirt in a flower pot,
not
hungry, not pure of heart, just trying. All year as my new husband,
sweet
and patient, moves old food from the back to the dark
garbage outside. What true advice godliness gives.
April 5
This is the Beginning
68 could be good, it could
be bad.
I’ve learned that happiness
is made by being precisely
in the moment.
Not late, not overly early,
but gratefully
completing transitions on
time.
Photos of younger women,
pretty
girls living with gusto,
are no
longer relevant. This time
of my life isn’t based on the
importance
of results, it is for
slowing activity,
eliminating ego, striving less.
One version of being a
senior is of a doddering.
old woman. Not me, though I
pledge to no longer
be so convenient to others. I might appear grouchy.
Time spent in public, well,
it’ll be by choice—blatant
ignoring may happen. Just
look at history of old age.
More women than men
shuffling about out there.
Women take over. We’re
converted to the head
of our families. Our personal
temperaments demand
respect. Matriarchs awakening
to importance,
but at the same time to
caring for less. It is
really a relief; it is exquisite
to age, to take on the pride
of tomorrow and tomorrow, again and again.
No comments:
Post a Comment