Terrible Cook

 

“I’ve been trying to learn how to cook, but it’s not going well” she said as she got out the frying pan.

“I’m terrible at it, no matter how hard I try” she added, as the ground beef sizzled and browned.

Absentmindedly, still frowning, she added salt, pepper, spices (all by feel, not measuring a thing), onions and peppers, then the sauce.

“It’s really sad that nothing I make is even edible” she mused, tossing the cooked pasta in olive oil.

Putting the sauce, pasta, and grated parmesan on the table, she said, “Well. There it is.”

It was delicious.

Still Human

 

He’d never appeared in her dreams, and then two nights in a row, there he was.

But not how she knew he was now- whole and healthy and loving.

He was angry and paranoid, like he’d been that last year.

During these two days, the LED candles that lit up in ones and twos to show her he was here remained dark.

That second morning, she couldn’t stand it- the thought that dementia could affect him, even now.

Outside, she looked down and there was one perfect wisteria bloom.

She picked it up and went inside. Every candle was lit.

True Story

 

Her family and friends told her she needed to move somewhere safer, but she’d always felt safe here on her little farm.

Sure, she was not the most popular old lady on the block, due to her political leanings and whatnot, but her neighbors would still help her if she needed it.

It happened as she was working by the barn, in view of the road.

The pickup roared past, and a young man yelled at her, “Nigger-lover!”

She stopped dead in her tracks, blood running cold, realizing that even though it was 2026, she still lived in Klan Country.

Zen

 

She sighed, trying to hold on to her composure, but it was now out of reach.

“Hey! Knock it off! I’m trying to be all zen and shit!”

Her evening yoga, tai chi and meditation took less than an hour. Was that too much to ask of a house where she was the only living human? She didn’t think so, but apparently it was.

The dogs, who spent 90% of the day sleeping, chose that time to chase each other, growling, yapping and knocking stuff over.

When she hollered, they stopped, and she heard her late husband’s voice clearly.

“Sorry.”

Age of Discontent

 

It finally happened. That thing she swore would never happen to her, no matter how old she got.

That thing where women of a certain age look at themselves and think, “I hate this about me and I’m going to change it and make it look younger.”

It wasn’t her hair. She loved that it was going gray.

It wasn’t her breasts. As long as they were comfortable and contained, she was happy with them.

It wasn’t her tummy. That tummy had grown three whole-ass human beings. It was fine.

She sighed and made appointments to get her tattoos re-done.

Old Trees

 

 She sat among the trees she’d loved for over two decades, once again filled with sorrow that she would be leaving them.

“How can I leave?” she whispered for the thousandth time since the decision had been made…to leave.

Closing her eyes, she listened to the wind in the trees, then to the trees themselves, their soft kind voices in her head.

“Little human, we love you, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you are exhausting. That younger forest has more energy than we do. We’ve protected your family through many crises. Please. We need to rest, now.”

Laundry

 

She loved doing laundry.

Make no mistake. She was terrible at it.

Not for her the separating of clothes into various piles.

On laundry day, she opened up the washer and dumped the entire contents of the hamper into it, set it to Normal/cold, added laundry softener (because she wasn’t a total barbarian), detergent, and oxi-clean (because she was sort of a barbarian), turned it on and wished it all well.

Then into the dryer.

She didn’t iron or fold anything.

But she loved the smell and warmth of clean laundry right out of the dryer.

And that was enough.