The Old Woman

She’s seen better days and worse.

Her cats think she sits around too much.

Her son, also, sits

too much, which

doesn’t stop him from

judging her sitting.

She cuts and sautés

onions and carrots for soup;

adds a little bay leaf

and garlic and uses the aroma

for air freshener and mood

swings. 

The old woman doesn’t wear shoes

schleps around in bare feet or

white cotton socks. She loves

the feel of pajamas in the daytime

and her cats also like the soft warm feel

of them. They think it’s night

when she sits in the chair

with her night things around her. 

The old woman’s ex-husband

comes for dinner every couple of weeks.

They have hot dogs and hamburgers

and discomfort for the hour or so

he stays. Why this continues

she doesn’t know—it’s just become

a thing they do. 

The old woman has memories: trips to Mexico,

many boyfriends when she was young, two

babies she raised. When she begins to forget

she has her boxes of photos—she needs to

fix up some albums. What was she thinking? 

I’ll just die at home, she decides; then I

won’t have to sort through all those

damn pictures. She gives the pot

a stir, and a tear falls in for seasoning.