melissaahowells
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Joyce will soon
be seventy-something Her husband died over twenty-seven years ago She has a lot in Her storage box of memories seems as if She's still very comfortable talking to nearly every one She meets but what she doesn't want you to know is that She feels alone and how She feels defeated and where and how She lives doesn't much feel like any kind of home but more like a last stop not the sort of place of dignity where a Seventy-Something Lady would care to jump off into the wild blue She has relatives still living but She feels forgotten nearly buried by Her worries and fears the grave looms nearer yet still She clings on because life is dear what does it take to be acknowledged to be truly seen? what would it mean if it happened and would it change for Her, Her mind? Her everything? often I find Her wandering the halls or see Her walking up the street always presenting me with Her cheery smile Her warm hello making me feel Her presence is some birthday treat what I rarely hear is how She feels alone even though I can see it in the forced comedy of Her shrug "I never thought I'd live to be this much older"... She'll say "maybe its 'cause I've been taking some better drugs?" still She'll swear its so grand to see me and how the weather couldn't possibly be any better or any other than the way it is (so what would be the use in complaining...) She'll recall how when Her old car got too old it was parted out and how most of Her clothes are worn but there's not much use in mending them anymore yet how She doesn't have the heart to throw anything away because each little thing has some tiny soul and just wants to be loved or how it is that older people mostly frighten the young with their getting older but why is it they see frailty and decline in lined faces and greying temples instead of understanding how we all will arrive at this destination some day... "Look closely at me, Dear," She says... "see how I'm fading away..." today, when I knocked Joyce invited me in I sat Upon the only comfortable chair in her tiny apartment I felt I was sitting on a throne She sat below me on the floor with legs tucked behind Her she was Hans Christian Anderson's Harbor Mermaid seated near my feet She was all ears and wide-eyed attention Her boxes stacked high like cardboard skyscrapers, retaining walls housing inside them everything She ever wanted or collected or felt She needed yet She tells me She's emptied out I listen to Her how She carefully repeats each word each sentence beginning with "well, I must tell you..." and then continuing with "you just might laugh..." She smiles then She engages me with an occasional nod in Her ringed hands She holds some small token to ground Her so that She can focus be more clear Joyce I think I know I enjoy giving you my whole attention Joyce You are so full of spunky life Joyce You make me happy and feel so important Joyce You ought to know how much good you do every time you bump right into my life Joyce shifts positions often sometimes sitting forward sometimes legs bent Buddha style is it She's uncomfortable being the focus of my attentions She bats Her hand in wide gestures as if to push me away from her duress She under-estimates Herself and doesn't see my best intentions She blushes and laughs as if to duck and shuffle out of the way any compliment I give Her couldn't be meant for Her but would have to be more for myself... my Mother died nine years ago my Father died the year before one of my Brothers has a traumatic brain injury and though I love him so much it pains me so every time I see how He's no longer the person He was before the other Brother tells me how I no longer exist and its as if we've just gone through a divorce then declared irreconcilable differences when really its all His irreconcilable indifference Joyce doesn't notice the subtle difference in how I feel when She is around She makes me feel like I'm The Most Important Person In The Room and once again I have some family around even though most of them are gone Joyce, some day soon I'll be Seventy-Something I hope to be just like you. LEGAL COPYRIGHT FOR THIS POEM WRITTEN DIRECTLY TO THE PAGE 7:34pm 8/2/2018 TIME DATE STAMPED AND ALSO FOR THIS WRITER MELISSA A HOWELLS AND ALSO FOR THIS LEGALLY COPYRIGHTED SITE TITLE MELOO STRAIGHT FROM HER TILT-A-WORLD. EDITING LATER, THANK YOU. edited 8/5/2018 11:33am PST Vote for this poem |
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