Tag: aging

Julia

1 June 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Pama Lee Bennett

I’m standing beside a gurney in the emergency room, a gurney on which my great-aunt, age 104, is lying. Some preliminary tests have been done. A doctor we haven’t seen before enters and stands opposite me across the gurney. He doesn’t address her but begins talking over her to me.

“She appears to have a kidney condition, but I’m not sure we can do much to help her at her age.”

I look down at her, and back to him.

“Doctor, I’d like you to do for her whatever you would do for me, or yourself, or your own mother.”

“Well, your aunt is very old. She is probably at the end of her life.”

I think to myself, wait for it, wait for it.

My aunt looks up at him sweetly and says, “Doctor, I would like to live. But if I die, it’s all right.”

The look on his face: priceless.

He mumbles that certain procedures might injure her delicate body, but he can order some medication. I say, “Ok, I can understand that, but let’s do what we can.”

He leaves the room.

He can’t know that she walked on her own and lived on her own until 100. That she loves to play Skip-Bo with family members every week. That she reads voraciously and still keeps in touch with former students from her days as a one-room school teacher. That she hushes me in conversation if Tiger Woods comes on the golf channel and she wants to watch him play.

I can’t know that nine months from now, she will die suddenly and quietly of natural causes one afternoon, just short of 105.

I can’t know that. But neither can the doctor.

Pama Lee Bennett is a retired speech-language pathologist living in Sioux City, IA. She has taught English at summer language camps in Poland and at a school there in 2019. Her work has appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal, Evening Street Review, The Bluebird Word, The Penwood Review, and others.

pink rose in vase centerpiece on brown wooden table — Photo by Lisa Fotios on Pexels.com

Book and a Bagel

6 March 2025 / Editor

Fiction by Alice Baburek

The old woman shuffled into the cozy and popular place. The line was longer than usual, yet she had no qualms with waiting. She held her prize possession against her sagging chest.

After several minutes, her legs began to ache. She tried desperately to rid her mind of the continuous pain. Finally, it was her turn.

“Good morning, Joan. I’ll have my usual, dear.” Her faded blue eyes still twinkled. A smile filled with yellow, crooked teeth. Her thinned gray hair tousled from the cold, blustering wind. But nothing could deter Elsie Mills from her rooted routine each morning. Nothing.

“Morning, Elsie. How are you feeling today?” Joan busily toasted the bagel twice and smothered it with melted butter. Just the way Elsie liked it.

“Every day is a good day when you’re alive!” Joan chuckled as Elsie waddled along to the register. “Coffee, please.” The tall young man handed her a medium-sized cup.

The second-hand coat hung to her knobby, arthritic knees. She fished inside the pocket. After several tries, Elsie yanked out a five-dollar bill. With a shaky hand, she gave it to the cashier. The other hand held the precious commodity.

Without saying a word, he took the money and gave Elsie the change. She abruptly shoved it back into her pocket. Change came in handy when taking the long bus ride home.

Minutes later, Elsie sat alone in the crowded cafe. The small round wooden table fit her nicely. She sipped at her steaming brew—roasted hazelnut, her favorite. With an everything bagel to her right and a hot cup of coffee to her left, she dared to open her escape from reality.

Today was an adventure like never before. Traveling the countryside on a wing and a prayer. Enjoying heaven’s delight as nature greets the foolhardy, leaving the chaotic world behind.

A warm summer breeze. The sun glistens off the white-capped waves as they roll onto the bronze sandy beach. Life at its purest moment.

Elsie let out a huge sigh. The Morning Café had emptied. She had been reading for hours. What was left of her coffee had become cold to the touch. The tasty bagel was long consumed in all its delicacy; how she yearned for younger days. When her life was no longer ruled by sickness and pain. When her mind was sharp and free from muddiness.

For Elsie, the enlightening sense of freedom came in books where imagination brought peace and serenity without physical restrictions and inabilities.

The frail woman leaned back and closed her grainy eyes. Suddenly, exhaustion reclaimed her body as it went limp. The book slipped closed. Her right hand fell by her side. Elsie drifted away into an endless sleep.

The paramedic checked her pulse once more. She looked up at her fellow EMT. Slowly, she shook her head. The two of them loaded the deceased woman onto the gurney. It was then they both noticed something quite strange. Elsie Mills was smiling.

Alice Baburek is an avid reader, determined writer and animal lover. Retired, she challenges herself to become an unforgettable emerging voice.

Spaces

10 February 2025 / Editor

Fiction by Christine Breede

My son has outgrown me. He leans down for a fleeting hug, then turns away; he’s already on his way out again. I stand with both hands on my hips, eyes following him, seeing a boy in a man’s body. Where are you going?

Maybe this is a story about destinations.

We are not talking, I say. Why can’t we sit and talk? What’s going on? I ask. My son is making plans with a friend on the phone, and I am asking him to speak to me—now.

Maybe this is a story about making plans.

I buy new books, schedule yoga classes and getaways. I see my friends, spend quality time with my partner, eat out and eat in, plant herbs, work more than I should. I’m energized in the morning and drained by nightfall when I see his room empty.

Maybe this story is about newness.

I am listening to my son’s voice change. I am watching him cook pasta al dente and call the hairdresser himself. He talks to my mother whenever we visit, making her laugh—until he stands at her grave, now speaking to her in a whisper. We miss her and her voice on the phone, unmistakable above all others. I feel the void and the void growing.

Maybe voices are the story.

I remind my son of when we took a gondola in Venice, boy and mom, and after a minute of rocking in the dark canal, before we even left the pier, he closed his eyes. I remember this, he says. What can you remember? I say. You didn’t see a thing. I know, he says, that’s what I remember.

Maybe remembering is the story.

Pictures from years ago pop up on my phone. My son looking at a pumpkin as if it were an oracle. His mister spy eyes under ruler-straight bangs no one understood but him. The two of us with ice cream cones and big smiles. My head leaning on his shoulder after a birthday dinner.

Maybe this story is about appreciation.

Everything about him is as it should be. I have a strong sense of his being. He has a strong sense of his being. But I don’t know where we are.

Maybe fear is the story.

I am watching my son grow big and myself grow old. It’s about aging with grace, someone says. Who the hell ages gracefully? It’s about aging with mischief, with bold beliefs, with a heart in the right place, I tell myself on a good day.

Maybe courage is the story.

His eyes are telling me his heart is in the right place. His stillness is telling me I need to listen. I watch him get ready to go out. I resist an impulse to go over to him, resist again. I feel the space between us and the space within me.

Maybe this story is about listening to space.

Christine Breede writes long, short, and very short fiction. Her work has been recognized by several leading contests. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2020 and has won the 2022 Bumble Bee Flash Fiction Contest. Working and collaborating with fellow writers is one of the things she enjoys most.

Muscle Memory

1 May 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Anne Bower

She’d told us the genetics,
smiled into the words
as if Alzheimer’s was just
some trip to the beach.

Now she can’t drive,
husband brings her to class,
where she’s
blank-faced at first,
repeats name of disease
that’s taking her mind.
Frowns as we start,
yet her body glides to tai chi.

A pause. She shakes her head,
not knowing what comes next.
A breath, shudder,
yet years of practice surge
her forward. She steps, turns,
gestures easy, smooth.
She’s swimming in a calm sea,
grins with delight.

Anne Bower lives in rural Vermont, teaching tai chi and training tai chi instructors. She has three chapbooks to her credit and poems published in The Raven’s Perch, Gemini Magazine, Cool Beans, Nine Cloud Journal, Plainsong, and many other journals and anthologies.

i touch this ripe tomato

1 May 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Amelia Díaz Ettinger

and marvel at how all things
soften—

his voice muted
to warm embers that avoid
scarlet overtones

and my old hands
carved to rice paper,
skin hulled away from bone

even this butcher knife
is dulled from over-care
now it cuts with tenderness

yes,
time’s own waltz,
mollifies all things

and i applaud these parenthesis
of my mouth, how
they enliven my sight

after all they are the repositories
of elapsed laughter

Amelia Díaz Ettinger is a Latinx BIPOC poet and writer. She has three books of poetry and two chapbooks published. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in many literary journals and anthologies.

Reminder

22 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Travis Stephens

Scattered around town,
bolted to the backs of benches
or bus shelters or appearing
without apology in free magazines
are well composed photos of
a couple, plus the sans serif
“It’s time to talk about Alzheimer’s.”

Yes, you say, while we can.
Before we forget to, I offer,
teaming for another joke.
Or talk about it again, you smile,
Because we don’t remember
we already did.
We are walking to the taco truck
on Pico, the one with the dollar tacos.
Not big, but tasty. Plus cans of Coke
or Sprite or milky horchata.
You order for both of us, the men
at ease with your dark-eyed loveliness
& tolerant of my gray hair.

I’ve always looked older, fooled even you.
But I see that the back of my arm
now looks crepey, the spots on my
hands not freckles or ink. We sometimes
run the numbers to calculate what your
parents were doing at our age, living
in Palm Springs or travelling abroad.
Grandparents many times over & both
retired early—something I am reminded
of in my daily commute. Grandpa Tug,
the little one says, & points at the stencil
on my shirt. His small body
lodged between us on the couch as we read.
The daily arrival of joy, eyes fresh with wonder.
If we stumble over names, what to call
that thing, you know…thing, don’t worry.
We will talk about it later,
vow to remember, try not to forget.

Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who resides with his family in California. Recent credits include: Gyroscope Review, 2River, Sheila-Na-Gig, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Raven’s Perch, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, Gravitas and The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Read his earlier poems in The Bluebird Word from April 2022 and September 2022.

62

7 March 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Corinne Walsh-Williams

my age feels like a vapor
sinking into my skin
seeping inward
to the warm
watery places where
my dreams are swimming
in the lukewarm juices
of my soul –
and everything
all that is left at least
is simmering to a broth

Corinne Walsh-Williams currently resides in Providence, Rhode Island where she earned her Master’s degree in Creative Writing. Covid gave her the poetry bug and she considers herself an emerging poet.

What the Old Want

28 October 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Steven Deutsch

Not much—
friends
and family
I suppose—
for short visits
involving meals
at restaurants
with tablecloths,
or something sumptuous
simmered for hours
over a low flame.

How about a week
without a visit
to a doctor
or a single
medical test.
No MRI or EKG
or CAT scan,
or even
a tube of blood
with my name
in magic marker.

Time
is in free fall.
Like riding
an elevator
held by a single
strand of steel
down from
the 93rd floor.
Bring kindness.

And, when all
else fails,
a recliner—
well worn
in all the right
spots.
A coffee
straight up
and the book
I loved best when
I was young.

Steve Deutsch has been widely published both on line and in print. Steve is a three time Pushcart Prize nominee. He is poetry editor for Centered Magazine. His poetry books; Perhaps You Can (2019), Persistence of Memory (2020), and Going, Going, Gone (2021), were all published by Kelsay Press.