At My Age


A bad knee.

A trip to the rheumatologist.

But first,

Seven pages of maladies

All in small type

With small boxes.

Do you have

Dry mouth?

Stinging eyes?

Sweaty hands?

Ringing ears?

The list goes on and on.

Even though the doctor’s conversation starts with

“At your age,”

I am so grateful that almost all the boxes

Are checked, “no.”

I did have to confess.

I smoked ten or so cigars

Over a ten year period

More than ten years ago.

But even at my age

Things can get better.

I can find the most amazing person to spend my life with

Who doesn’t smoke cigars!

And has children

Who have accepted me, and

Allowed me to love the father they worship.

I can be so happy I’m a mom,

And can see the joy in my son’s and my daughter-in-law’s smiles.

And revel in their amazing minds, character, work, and love.

I can adopt a silly, oh-so-entertaining, but super lazy coon hound.

Who only grudgingly, when bribed with treats, will go to the park.

But he does.

I can love my sisters and be astonished by their amazing talents.

And I can stop trying to be someone I’m not.

The parents are gone.

The grades are in.

It’s time to love

And be loved.

At my age.

Time’s precious.


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