My Books

Sitting on the grassy spot in front of my mother’s grave, I couldn’t help but think I’d be next. 

Not that turning fifty makes for a death sentence.  It’s just that my mother’s recent passing forced me to realize I was no spring chicken anymore.  Definitely more like a late-summer chicken, if I were still any kind of chick at all.  

Fifty, five-o, five tens and no ones, May 24th 2003–just next year, the date when I’d finally become a woman of a certain age. 

Oh, I’d  made a futile pledge to cling to my forties, the final hurrah before a woman slips over the abyss into middle age. 

But just as with the changing seasons, like the passing of summer into autumn with its frail leaves falling, nothing can stop the cycle.