I don’t write in a journal everyday, but I have accumulated many entries over the past 50+ years beginning in 1966. Some items evolved into longer works. Among the leftovers little pieces survived. I thought a collection of these with a piece culled from the same date in a past year would make an interesting yearbook. The consistencies and inconsistencies of mind, skipping back and forth across time, provide varied perspectives. It is difficult to remember the context of the past we’ve lived; we also make suppositions about times that predate ourselves.

The few alterations from original drafts were to improve clarity. The worst of my work is not included. There remains enough mediocrity and immaturity to make me feel humble and you feel smart. There are also moments of accidental insight and incidental humor.

Author Stephen Crane referred to his little pieces as pills…apparently they were small and somewhat hard to swallow, but good for you.


Comments Welcome!

Friday, January 1, 2021

Who Decides?

 

January 1, 2010  (I was 65)

 

         Who Decides?

I sit next to her wheelchair at lunch.

I feed her.  She eats everything.

She drinks juice milk water then coffee,

coffee with her cake.  I make sure

the pieces are small.  She looks at me.

She likes to hold my hand.

I stroke her cheek and her hair.

She looks at me as if she knows me.

A caretaker comes by, says, “Hello Rose.”

She looks at him and points at me.

“You have a visitor today, how nice.”

She looks at him and points at me,

“My father,” she says and looks at me.

The caretaker moves to the next table.

She looks at me, You look younger,” she says.

I smile at her, “So do you.  You look younger.”

I take her hand again.  I remember the coma.

I remember the pneumonia, the conference

regarding extreme measures.  My wishes

my instructions, her comfort, her quality of life.

Now she finishes her lunch and looks at me

puzzled.  Her forehead wrinkles in thought.

Her lips move soundlessly.  She looks at me

and squeezes my hand.  “Who decided?”

She glances around then looks at me,

“Who decides?”  Instead of answering

I squeeze her hand.  This Christmas

my family gives me things I need,

they are sure, a different car,

a computer with much more memory,

a subscription to a movie service.

I protest, I don’t need all this.

They say I deserve it.  I look at them

and wonder who decides?

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