Today’s 35-word stories about the challenges of being mature. I’ll let you know when I get there. More stories here. Thanks for reading, my friends. -K
Adulting is hard, I said.
I’ve never been good at it, she added.
There we stood, at 59 and 82,
amazed we made it this far,
or 24-hour supervision.
Bandaids, three just this morning.
Rivulets of blood, seeping through.
Sore, throbbing, and a little embarrassed.
This is why I can’t have nice things.
Like sharp Japanese knives, thinly sliced persimmon,
one must feed them,
day after day, year after year.
Luckily, we made it.
They’re grown and gone,
and I’m grateful that
frozen cookie dough
was acceptable as dinner,
once in a while.
Banking, taxes, and mortgages,
eating without spilling on myself,
changing my car’s oil,
cleaning under the refrigerator produce bin,
understanding the voting propositions,
farting silently and scent-free,
Grown up activities I will never master.
Adult things she can do:
Make a fantastic salad,
be on time,
say I love you,
hand write notes,
ideate and create,
look you in the eye.
Photo by Kim Tackett. Clarion Alley murals, San Francisco, CA.