age Archives · Blue Fern Press

Really

It’s all about the clawfoot tub. Ted loved her place. So he married her. They had kids. She died at 90. He won’t let them sell at any price.

The thwack of typewriter keys fills the repair shop. The owner is a beaut, like his vintage machines. Ann takes him and a Smith Corona home.

Mia whistles, not a song, but a cry like the wind. Twilight mockingjays answer. Tidying her one plate, one cup, one fork, she calls to them.

Paula grew up on a cul-de-sac. Now she lives on a dead end. She’s traversed many and many a roundabout in the interim, all leading her here.

Maeve was 84, rode a ’59 Schwinn, and ran a printing press. She left it to her bike mechanic, Sam. In his comics, she became an enchantress.

She lives near the shore, but Pearl hasn’t seen it in years. She’s forgotten the way to the sea, but she remembers the language of seagulls.

Ann drew her God with crayons as a girl. Now an old woman, when she stills her mind to pray, she sees that same orange and red ball of fire.

Plucking a harp that isn’t there is not like air guitar. It looks strange. Jillian can’t speak, but she plays murmured concertos flawlessly.

The only Spanish he knows, he learned on I Love Lucy. The only English she knows, she learned from her kids. Silently, they learn the tango.

Leigh rode to the end of the line, walked the last mile, sailed to the edge of the sea, until she was off the map. And still, she was Leigh.

She wanted the languid serenity of a Gauguin, but Tia knew she was a complex Picasso: when young, a sketch; by 60, a canvas bold with color.

In the mirror, Liv saw a crinkled, aging woman. Nathan said he saw a clever brow, curious eyes, and a kaleidoscopic face. He wasn’t lying.

Nearly ninety now, Cora pushes past the elementary school in her walker. The school bell clangs. She stops with a start, six and late again.

A mature gingko grew golden outside her classroom. The crone told us its resurrection tale. Today a young gingko is greening, and I see her.

At seven, Anna planted sunflower seeds to see them grow madly tall. At seventy, she starts marigolds in a windowbox to see golden God again.

Edie’s bud vase is never empty. Ed sees to that. He gave it to her in 1952. On their 60th anniversary, she gives him 5 dozen Emperor tulips.

Em owns a vintage Mustang. She bought it in ’67. Em’s good at keeping things. Al isn’t. He left Em in ’82. He regrets it. He loved that car.