When I was young, engulfed in a hazy half-life of drug and alcohol- induced close calls, I never imagined that I would live to see children or grandchildren. I could more readily see my spirit sinking away from an emaciated body in a trash bin than looking back on a jumble of lessons learned through years of completions and failures, the continual unveiling of living. Morbid teenaged ruminations have long ago dissolved into a reality-based curiosity. Yes, death will eventually come — there’s no guarantee of a next heartbeat — but more interesting are the infinite unimaginable possibilities of life.…
Author: Mom Egg Review
If only I could find my glasses I could read the morning paper. Now that I have found my spectacles I am unable to read the fine print. Last week, Dr. Evans said the eye drops for the glaucoma and cataracts would help but they have not. This condition is ravishing my body and good looks. I guess surgery will be eminent. If I do, who will care for me? Prepare my meals? Bathe me and accompany me to my appointments until I heal? Getting old isn’t for sissies! I sit at my vanity brushing my long luxurious hair that…
In this lingering light of a late winter against a coral covered sky. I have passed forty-two age my mother was when she died. Once so hot headed I strutted no, left home tearing remnants of my childhood umbilicus to shreds as I rushed into life wearing only the clothes on my back. Free, finally free! Multicolored messenger bag hugging her hips twice the size of my own.…
When you go dancing do persons other than friends ask you to dance? Strangling words pierced lips where love, passion and need once lived. My gray crown counting each subtle cruelty. Long ago in my lover’s arms I convinced myself I was loved, beautiful and desirable. This was love’s magic. I became Cleopatra and Nefertiti bold and courageous. Now, love punished me for aging. With each passing year my lover’s desire and lust becoming closeted. I became the aged woman kept at home while youthful beauty danced in daylight. Survival taught me to kill the love I felt. Learning to…
I lay awake Thoughts of times past The sound of your footsteps pacing The sanctuary of hot coffee Silver of your hair glistening under a single kitchen bulb Silver the age of restless Awakened long before dawn Silver doesn’t need much sleep I ponder your thoughts, away in the unfamiliar Surrounded by darkness, praying for sunshine Fear of the un-known, confused, frustration My wide eyed doe In the middle of traffic, stumbling in the rain Heart pounding Seeking peace, comfort, freedom Hoping, praying that the next set of head lights belong to the familiar And comes to a screeching halt.…
My mother loses the tip of her nose to melanoma. She loses her last sweetheart Art when his daughter forced him to move across the country. She loses her friends one by one as they died. She loses her swim class when I won’t let her walk on the slippery pool walkway. She loses reading novels she loved when her left eye goes blind. She loses her short-term memory to the mini-stroke. She loses walking unaided to scoliosis. She loses her house she’s lived in fifty-eight years when she falls and breaks her hip. At the nursing home she asks…
Age has found me with a tube of red lipstick, a missing front tooth and a partial I had to put in the lay-a-way cuz it cost too much to buy outright Got pesky moles removed from my face an early Christmas present from my friend who told me my skin would look like the excitement I felt the first day I went roller skating Age has found me with a bottle of red nail polish, books of blank pages and a calligrapher’s pen My back is sore, my right knee aches but my strokes are bold and long penning…
The history of my hair My curls These grays…. My canas Are the maps of my life Each strand confirms I’ve lived through some things I’ve been through some things I’ve seen some things My curls scream Africa Afrolatina Woman Choking on messages about hair That the world wants to force feed me How it represents my true beauty “Blow it out! Para que parezca gente!” “Sécate ese pelo porque pareces una loca!” “Use this cream it will straighten it!” “Ven ponte aqui!” “Come sit between my legs, I’ll do your hair!” “Tráeme el peine, y las bolitas! If I…
I leave the hard liquor and the loud talk, that special pot of New Years’ souse. I seek the quiet my elders taught: As the night turned, as the year turned, bad leg or not, my grandfather knelt before his sagging armchair, prayed the way a man prays; down on one knee, leaning on one elbow, bent forefinger and thumb pressing the bridge of his nose. My grandmother, in her plain, white apron over a flowered shirt-waist dress, knelt and leaned on the worn leather of a wooden side chair, head bowed, hands clasped. As the night turned, as the…
I do not recognize the hand that grasps mine… Strong, but no flesh-cushion smooths its bony contours. Brown, but bluish conduits of life bulge and writhe, While newly freckled skin sinks ’round visible cords of thick sinew. It seems I do not recognize… That as my Mother before, Both I, And my hands have aged. Christopha Moreland is a retired Pediatric Occupational Therapist. Her long-standing avocational interests include modern dance, music and the performing arts, as well as adventure sports. Creative writing is a relatively new venture and she is very much enjoying the journey to find her voice.