Scroll On

My grandson is my Web Page Designer. He is a gifted artist, articulate communicator, and wise beyond his years. Also, he is drop dead gorgeous and I love him dearly. Because he insists we meet weekly to stay current and congruent with my web’s development, I have the consistent pleasure of spending an hour or so almost every week with a young man who inspires me like no one else. I am pretty happy –and smug – about that.

So, the other day as we were working on a design for a new project, the uncomfortable moment came up when the program asked for my age. With One Republic yanking out “Love Runs Out” in the back of the café, I sigh deep, trying hard to keep from tapping my foot to the beat of the music. We have to scroll waaaay down to my birth year. At last 1946 pops up. Alec clicks on it.

My grandson smiles, inhales, and looks at me. “Wow!” he exhales. “I love that.”

Suddenly, Time has no jurisdiction on me. I am alive and I can do anything!





The afterglow of festivities

shines bright on melted candlesticks.

Thick residue winds its way

into settled dust on table tops.

The family has departed to revel

in their gifted bounty

while I stack gay torn boxes

empty with memories now faded.

In the quiet winter light, I reminisce

with the Christmas tree left behind.

We both are shedding.