Here’s the thing about aging
Slowly, or maybe not so slowly
You lose the ability to conquer
Even your own body
Much less the world

Once not so very long ago
I tried to end a war
Once not so very long ago
I tried to conquer capitalism
Then I tried to conquer parenting
The world would gasp in wonder
As I revealed what perfect parenting looked like
I think my now grown children would agree
On this if nothing else
I did not conquer parenting
Nor marriage, for that matter

My career was, as they say,
Rich and rewarding
But I failed to conquer disease
Or even USA health insurance

Not so very many years ago
I tried to conquer some rather modest
Remodeling in my home
I had some notable success
But LO! these many years later
That small molding bridging the floor
And the larger molding on the wall
Whose proper names are clearly
Beyond my ability to conquer right now
That small molding remains missing
As I wearied of the battle

Now in my 70s
It becomes somewhat embarrassing
Even in a poem
To tell of my latest battles
For what poetry should I write
About what my own physician
Somewhat cavalierly refers to as
Fecal incontinence

Yes, dear reader,
My battles and my conquests
Much less my defeats
Are best kept private these days

That is why I no longer dream of conquest
Or victories or battles
But live grateful for peace
In my bowels if nowhere else

If I saw Oliver’s wild geese
And Angelou made them rise and fly
If Berry were a wild apple tree
And Dickinson a drop of rain on his tree
If Cohen’s light shone through cracks
And Kenyon let evening come
If cummings shot dogooding folks on sight
And we reached the top of Gorman’s hill
After taking Frost’s road
If I could fill Kipling’s unforgiving minute
Not with distance run but with Love
And plant Stevenson’s seeds each day
If I could walk Tolkien’s road going ever on
And meet Alcott’s pilgrim in my progress
If I could snuggle always with the psalmist’s God
And never fear Dante’s hell

If I could write this forever
And name all my life’s
Poets and authors
Still there would be more
Always more to discover
An eternity of words
To take me beyond words

Hobbes the cat was long lived
And long loved
Though not necessarily by me

First by Arwen
My elfin daughter
Elfin to me not because of small size
(She is close to six feet tall)
Nor even because she was conceived
Most likely
In Wales
And born
Most definitely
In England
But because I have loved The Lord of the Rings
Since I first devoured it
Too long ago to remember just when
(Middle Earth was my safe haven
Throughout an adolescence that was stormy
In the sense that a cat 5 hurricane is stormy)

So Arwen is Arwen because
I love Lord of the Rings

When Arwen was in high school
Her much loved cat
(Whose name may have been Softy
Or Stinky)
Died

Her volleyball teammates scoured the winter countryside
Until they found a cat that had kittens 
Out of season
And surprised Arwen 
– and me – 
with a gray tabby kitten
She named Hobbes

Two short years later
Arwen left for university

Hobbes lived another 20 years
and became my husband’s cat
while I gave my heart to our big dog
whom our boys had named Vanity
thinking Vanity meant beautiful

Hobbes loved to sleep on Gordon’s chest
And sometimes even on his head
Which bothered Gordon not at all
But drove me crazy

Vanity died
My husband died

When Gordon was in palliative care
My sister came from New Orleans
And slept in our bed
Until she was startled awake
By what she described as 
A gray mountain lion
Pouncing on her chest

Hobbes lived on
Moving twice with me

Joined eventually
By Sugar and Spice
My beautiful big mutts
Sugar like a yellow lab
Spice like a cinnamon shepherd
Litter mates
Found
In a North Carolina town garbage dump
Flea ridden puppies
Foraging for themselves

I made the five hour drive to make them my own
And bring them home to Hobbes
Who was unimpressed

Vanity, Sugar and Spice
I loved for themselves

Hobbes I loved with a tenderness
That had little to do with cats
And much to do with grown daughters
And deceased husbands.

Ten o’clock most Thursday mornings
I join my mother
And a few others
In the small chapel
Of Our Lady of Peace Retirement Center
Where Mom lives now
In 2024
Making her 100th journey around the sun
Worshiping still, as she has always
The Son of Man
Jesus the Christ
The Anointed
The Messiah
With a special devotion to his mother
The Blessed Virgin Mary
Or, as I often say 
But never in Mom’s hearing
The BVM
As if she were a particularly fine
Make of car

My mother’s faith is no longer my own
But I join her and others
Most every Thursday
To say the rosary
That five decade prayer to the BVM
Interspersed with the Our Father and 
Glory be to God prayers

Throughout my grade school years
Attending St. Leo the Great Catholic School
In the overwhelmingly Catholic city
Of New Orleans
We said the rosary after lunch
Every day, Monday to Friday
Together as a class
With the sole objective of speed
HailMaryFullOfGraceTheLordIsWithTheeBlessedArtThouAmongWomen…

Now, sitting with a small group of the residents
Of Our Lady of Peace Retirement Center
I say the rosary slowly with them
Savoring not the words but the rhythm
Not the meaning but the community
Not with my head but with my heart

Things I used to pray for:
  World peace
  An end to hunger
  More equitable distribution of wealth
  An end to discrimination
  Justice for all
  Women’s equality in law and culture
  More patience
  More compassion
  Deeper faith
  Curly hair
  Bigger boobs

Things I pray for now:
  To return to prayer each day

I am but a mote
Floating alone
Through the smurr of troubles
Unaware of the brilliant Light above

Or a ruderal
Trying to flourish alone
In hardness of heart

Too often I am marcescent
Clinging to my past mistakes

Until the susurrus of others calls me
To the divine murmuration 
Dance flying together
Softly quietly 

Until, one by one,
We alight on the Sun’s zenith.

Long ago
Before my memory formed
I learned that letters form words

I sat on my father’s lap
I am told
In the small apartment
One bedroom
Over a garage
Around the corner
From my mother’s family home

Come evening
I sat on my father’s lap
My sober laughing father
Long before alcohol and illness
Stole his laughter

I sat
Snuggling close
I am told
As he read the newspaper
Every day
Long before we owned a TV
Although even then
He preferred reading the news

He read aloud
Right through the paper
News and opinions 
Obituaries and ads
I am told

And so I learned
I am told
In those small evenings
That letters make words
And words make meaning
And meanings make feelings

And later, in the time of memory
Those words and meanings
Made a retreat for me
A cave of words
A security of worlds
A beauty of escape
From my once gentle father