A Liminal Space
By Pat Gallagher
Where am I now? Nowhere. Not there nor here. Grief is like that.
Looking Around
By Marjorie Roth
Looking around my dining room where I am choosing a few things to be polished for the holidays, I spy with my little eye a number of things that are important to me. Some have already been polished and are shining out, demanding attention. I spy the well and tree platter which will hold the turkey on Christmas. But outgleaming it is my emotional favorite: a hot chocolate set so attractively designed it speaks to me whenever I see it. It consists of a round silver tray with a beaded edge, a sugar bowl and a creamer, also beaded, with each shaped in a particularly delightful way.
My Accomplishment This Year
By Marjorie Roth
At age 100 it’s a little hard to say I’ve accomplished anything but survival this past year. I feel a little like Ukraine: fighting as I can but slowly losing ground. I have to recognize I’m living an altered life. I’ve begun to think that realization applies to life in toto, if we start with Shakespeare’s Ages of Man. It starts with the infant mewling and puking in his nurse’s arms, and finishes with walking on three legs, one of them a cane. Well, I can only walk on two legs and a counter, or on two legs and four wheels that will move me along. If Shakespeare had known about driving a car, he would have used it for adolescent age and the absence of it for old age. That stage alters life drastically. If I want to go anywhere I need someone to drive me, and then I need to be sure when I get out of the car I will have my walker and that there are railings and not too many steps to climb.
The Unexpected Gift Of Being Old
By Marion Bar-Din
Now, at the age of ninety-four and a half, I’m still experiencing things I hadn’t expected. Many are good things that warm my old heart. I have, over the past ten or more years, a new group of middle-aged men and women who come to visit me regularly and are interested in listening carefully to what I say. These are the sons and daughters of my old friends who have already passed away. They call me and want to visit. They ask lots of questions, but soon they are telling me about their lives and look to me as a surrogate parent who may have advice or a story about their mother or father.
The Time Remaining
By Pat Gallagher
The first time the finite nature of human existence entered my mind was a remark uttered by the writer Harris Dulany in 1970. Harris and his wife Barry and their two young daughters were friends of mine. At the time they were living in a rambling brownstone in Fort Greene in Brooklyn. Harris had worked at the Strand Bookstore, famous for its collection and size. He said one day he’d had an epiphany when he was at the bookstore. Gazing at the enormous collection he realized that if he read a book a day he would die before he could read them all. I don’t know why I still remember this incident but the image of books representing the days of a life was compelling. Compared to the thousands of books on hundreds of shelves a lifetime is a very short shelf indeed.
Elderhood
By Mary Lu Everett
Thinking about elderhood makes me look back a bit and try to remember my life’s passage from when I was born, and to my children and grandchildren along the way and where I will go from here now that I will be 80 years old soon.
Are You My Mother?
By Peggy Phillips
This place is surprisingly noisy. Voices seem to carry loudly down the long hallway. Her room is not too far from the physical therapy area, so there is a lot of activity and conversation outside her door. The door could be closed, but it’s hot today and with the window open in her room it’s the only way to get cross-ventilation. She doesn’t care for the room. The fabric covered lampshade of the the bedside lamp doesn’t match the fabric of the curtains, and the lamp itself is way too tall for anyone to reach the switch while lying in bed. Her spirits have gone up and down over the three days she has been here. Today she’s not interested in much and seems confused and weak and frail. This scares me.
Being 95
By Evelyn Apte
Many years ago, a dear friend told me that he believed that our bodies were meant to last until age 95 maximum. He himself passed away at the age of 98.
Elusive Time
By Margaret Kokka
Time has begun to play an elusive role in my life as I age. Without the guardrails of a given schedule provided by work or caregiving, time becomes ephemeral and instead of treasuring the passage of my limited number of hours, days, or years left, I find myself at the end of the day empty handed and adrift. I lecture myself, to set up a schedule and at the end of the day I should have accomplished some goal I have set for myself,
Gethsemane – an excerpt from The Death Ride
By Molly Hartle
I throw my bike in the car and drive it down hill to Maple Street. I could start the ride at my house, but I know after doing more than 3,000 feet of climbing, I won’t want to do another 500 to get back up the hill.