Change

Aging, All Poems, Change, Humor

My Mother Emerged

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I had a strange sensation, said Bob in the bathroom.

Staring into the mirror.

My cheeks used to be chubby. I looked like my father.

But, recently, Bob lost weight.

Between exercising, watching diet.

He continued, now my cheeks are hollow. My mother emerged.

Pointing to his cheekbones.

Skin below, sunken inward.

His observations, true.

My eyes, another mirror.

Ears, too.

Hearing his mother’s words cascade from his mouth.

Hippity do dah, when his hip hurts.

Noticing behaviors.

Her need to be everywhere early.

Plan, organize, strive for perfection.

While his father, a free spirit.

Spontaneous, arriving late.

Jolly, good humored, rarely ruffled.

Wry sense of humor.

Lover of food, overweight.

Which Bob was until his mother poked out.

But, I suppose that’s what happens

as years roll on by.

Genetics of each parent

in minds and bodies vie.

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 14, 2024

 

All Poems, Change, Cousins, Electronics, Emotions, Family, Stories, Weddings

Waiting for the Call

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I started waiting for the call at three.

The first part of the time frame established.

Earlier in the week.

Saturday, between three and five.

I texted, asking if he was ready to talk.

No answer.

So, I continued working on my laptop.

Till Bob suggested a walk.

I guess he forgot, I lamented.

As we spun around the neighborhood.

Upon return, WhatsApp tinged.

Asking pardon for not calling.

He was at the gym.

Forgot his phone.

Can I call soon? he typed.

Very soon, I replied. We’ll be eating in half an hour.

Two minutes, flashed the reply.

In two, the cell rang.

My young cousin from Santiago.

Whom we hosted seventeen years ago.

So he could attend high school in Upper Dublin.

Learn English, see some sites.

Philadelphia, Baltimore, DC, Boston.

Now telling me his wedding date.

Could we come to Chile?

And, maybe in two years, we could meet in New York.

He and his wife, coming to the US for a month in Spring, 2026.

It was a conversation full of details, news.

Lots of catch-up.

Family, career, life in general.

Did I mention?  It was all in Spanish.

Soft tones of Santiago.

Not the jarring sh sounds of Buenos Aires.

Martín doesn’t yet speak English.

I did my best, listening, responding.

In my rusty Spanish.

I think I got the gist.

The important information.

The sense of being remembered.

Not mislaid in life’s press.

Joy of reconnection.

Soul-warming blessedness.

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 9, 2024

All Poems, Change, Family, People Traits, Spouses, Stories, Wisdom

Breaking Rules

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It seems all the rage now to break rules.

Mock speed limits.

Tread on property not your own.

Walk dogs where prohibited.

Modeled by legislators who trespass yet more.

Flout election laws.

Defy official subpoenas.

Take bribes.

Making light of prohibitions, regulations.

Often sliding by without consequences.

Have you ever been tempted to disregard a sign?

For convenience?

Momentary ease?

Out of frustration?

Pulling into a parking space to go shopping?

One, designated for a tenant in an adjacent building?

Like Bob did the other day.

Because the lot looked full.

Telling me he’d park for just a moment.

In the spot marked for apartment 202.

He’d put on his blinkers.

Run in, then run out.

I glared at him.

Superego screaming, no.

Challenged him: What if #202 returns home?

Needs to park, race inside?

What if it were your space?

It only took a moment.

For my scruples to rouse his.

He got back into the car, moved it.

I was glad my restless conscience

could deter his moral lapse.

For obeying signage on the streets,

keeps society from collapse.

Lynn Benjamin

June 8, 2024

All Poems, Change, Death, Memories, Stories

Podiatrist

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It occurred to me I needed an appointment.

To see a podiatrist about a toe.

So, I called the one my father used.

For many years.

Walked there from my house.

Along Old York Road.

To the Plaza at the Pavilion.

Where the doctor practiced.

Also, where my father resided for a year or two.

Distracting myself as I marched.

Listening to a course on line.

But on entering the building, ambushed.

By a slew of memories.

Entranceway, the same.

Consulting suite, unchanged.

I’m sure my father’s old hallway, frozen in time.

Food smells wafting out from under doors.

I took a seat in the waiting area.

Doctor and I, unlike the surroundings, different, older.

He greeted me.

Once in the chair, saying, I remember your father. I used to help him buy special shoes.

I studied this man.

Reminiscing about my father, gone in 2018.

I miss him, I couldn’t stop myself from sighing.

The podiatrist lifted his head.

I miss my father. He died in 2012.

We both paused.

Sensed reverence in the air.

Roles slipped away.

The office filled with prayer.

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 5, 2024

Aging, All Poems, Change, Family, Gym/exercise, Health/Illness, Humor, Love, Pleasure, Seasons, Spouses

Transformation

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Bob transforms before my eyes.

Noting new muscles in stomach, thighs.

Increasing weights on machines.

Walking with zip, alacrity.

Signing up for classes to strengthen core.

Watching carbs, losing weight.

Shrinking from pant size forty to thirty-six.

A number he hasn’t worn since his twenties.

Why do people think a man of seventy-five can’t change?

Even become younger?

Stare at himself in the mirror like a seventeen-year-old?

Study his physique?

Buy stylish clothing?

New undergarments, socks?

Hold my hand, rub my back?

Flirt, enchant, allure with passion?

Wax poetic about flowers?

Blooming clematis, daisies, lavender.

Waiting for bee balm, Echinacea to bare petals.

Attract hummingbirds, butterflies.

Notice mating calls of frogs, foxes?

Cardinals, robins, wrens

Luscious sensuality abounds.

June’s vitality makes it easy to be young.

No matter your age.

Passion floats with pollen through the air.

Settling golden on the skin.

Transfigured, we instantly take care.

With vigor, once again smitten.

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 3, 2024

Aging, All Poems, Change, Cousins, Emotions, Family, Gardens, Health/Illness, Loss, Regret, Stories

Sitting with Libby

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I’m glad we went to see Libby today, said Bob.

Bustling around the kitchen.

Reflecting on the afternoon.

I’m glad we visited, too.

A chance to sit outside with her.

Under Japanese lilacs.

Perfuming breezes.

Sneaking through open doors to sweeten corridors.

In the residence where she now resided.

It was peaceful.

Not a word about politics.

Conviction of Trump.

Just being together in the garden.

Three of us, alone.

Talking about her soon-to-be ninety-first birthday.

Her new great grandson.

Mention of him filling her eyes with tears.

Scrolling photos on her phone.

Stopping at azaleas outside her former home.

Pictures, she requested from her son.

Still living there.

Blooming bushes, a place, a season she misses.

Trading them for needed care.

Knowing the choice, right.

But wistful for what she left behind.

We sat in shade.

Just present with each other.

I, commenting on her pink nails, short haircut.

Simple, unhurried conversation.

Plying her about my maternal grandparents.

Her aunt and uncle.

Whom she knew growing up.

But who didn’t survive past my second year.

She, the last link in the family to remember them.

My turn to feel melancholy.

Not getting to know them.

I wish my parents told me more.

Or maybe I hadn’t heard.

Tenuous my history.

Who’s left to pass on the word?

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 1, 2024

Aging, All Poems, Animals/Insects, Change, Natural Beauty, Seasons, Time, Trees

I Shake my Head

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I shake my head at my youthful self.

Longing to stay in bed till nine.

Despite sunshine poking through panes.

For now, when I see first gleams of light, I sit straight up.

Wanting to catch them.

Jump forward, follow them.

Close the door behind me.

Bask in sights, smells.

Linden leaves, roses.

Lilacs, honeysuckles.

Rhythms of the season.

Caws, cheeps, trills.

Honks, hammers, vibratos.

Early rising birds.

Claiming soil, sky.

I want to hear morning symphonies.

Inhale perfumed lands.

Before the rush of traffic.

Humming engines, shrieking brakes.

Students parking cars.

Rushing toward classes.

Before the goose family arises.

Hatchlings in a comfy ball.

Fuzz greying into feathers.

Before the day swings underway.

Wakes up, stretches, yawns.

How much time have I left to find?

How many unspent dawns?

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 25, 2024

Aging, All Poems, Change, Family, Humor, Pleasure, Spouses, Stories

Rose Scented Body Wash

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Do you like the rose scented body wash? Bob asked me.

After ordering two bottles of the hard-to-find liquid on line.

Arriving today, I opened one, used it.

Nodding assent, I tell him, I like that scent. But, it became unavailable.

He went on, there are only two more left in stock. Should I order them?

I hesitated, thinking how much I relished the fragrance.

Then, a quick shake of the head, no.

What sense to hoard a bath soap

when I’m seventy-five?

Who knows if in a year or two

I’ll even be alive?

What’s the point of downsizing?

Tossing to make space?

If we purchase extra products.

Likely, we’ll misplace.

No merit now in storing

any more than two.

If I have to switch aromas,

that’s just what I’ll do.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 22, 2024

 

Aging, All Poems, Birthdays, Change, Friendship, Loss, Memories

Discovery and Rediscovery

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How do you feel when you discover something?

Something novel?

A new place, new food?

New word, new flower?

Perhaps it spices up your life.

Gives you a sense of adventure.

Animates, enlivens.

Tickles the spirit.

What about rediscovery?

Something you knew in the past?

Lost, misplaced, forgot about?

A recipe, book?

Song, photo?

Perhaps a person?

Someone you lost touch with?

For the hustle bustle of life.

Career, marriage, childrearing.

And, then, reconnected with.

Finding out you still had much in common.

Adolescent memories.

Values, opinions, perspectives.

Even birthdays.

Exactly one week apart.

A fact I held onto for decades.

After going our separate ways.

Always remembering my friend’s birthday.

Acknowledging it in silence.

Even when apart.

Mourning the loss.

But, also, honoring her, the past relationship.

Despite disconnection.

So, when this year, I could offer her birthday wishes, I did.

Putting a bounce in my step.

Lightening each breath.

Feeling blessed in older age,

rediscovering a person dear.

Now we’ve found each other,

not possible to disappear.

 

Lynn Benjamin

June 7, 2024

All Poems, Animals/Insects, Birth, Change, For Children, Gym/exercise, Parent Love

From the Window of the Gym

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I watch from the window of the gym.

As I make rounds on the track.

Staying dry on a damp, drizzly day.

Gazing at geese.

Two parents, five goslings.

Roaming a distance from the pond.

Vigilance diminishing as hatchlings grow.

Bigger, fatter, faster.

Poking, picking at grass.

Unbothered by showers.

Maybe even rejoicing in them.

Finding them cool, refreshing, cleansing.

I think how patient parent geese are.

Wondering, do they ever lose their tempers?

As the babies age?

Become teens?

Obey less, defy more.

Claim independence.

I don’t really know.

Because by then, they fly away.

Till next Spring to nest.

Showing me their parenting

at its very best.

 

Lynn Benjamin

May 13, 2024