Can we create our own lineage? Can we invent a harmless family after being rejected? How am I called to this mission? To offer a structure that is a source of holiday joy, certainty, the ride to the doctor but, moreover, a visit that dilutes loneliness. Will you see me?
Can we create legacy? No one wants my photos. No one knows the provenance of my rosaries. My mother wore these gloves. My father wore these cuff links. Are they treasures with no lasting value even though I mourn their donation to a thrift shop?
With each passing decade, once over 60, I move with fewer books. In a shop, will a curious shopper question my margin notes? Will she burst with secret whispers as I did when I saw Alice Paul's private judgments in the folds of Friedan's The Feminine Mystique?
Garden to patio. Patio to window. Window to travel magazine. But my dreams are not smaller; only my glasses magnify. I am expected to be smaller. I do not rage against a dying light. It is brighter. I will tell you, when you ask.