|Last Supper, miniature from a Psalter, c.1220-40|
She couldn’t remember that she had affirmed in hours of morning conversing
that she would finish her novel in March before writing poetry in April.
It was already 5 o’clock P.M. and she was scared she’d forget half her life.
If she lost half, she’d probably forget to worry, too.
And I’ve been falling often of late, because it’s hard to be careful while having fun
talking and walking with my friends.
We laugh because we share the same problem.
But I’m eager to know what happens next in her new book, so I’ll remind her. And
because we both fall down, we agree to walk slower and pay attention to our path.
She hasn’t fallen since back surgery, but she forgot green paper shamrocks were
for St. Patrick’s day, and last month she said she never tasted pink candy sweethearts.
But she can tell me Easter stories and how Jesus ate his last Passover meal.
Once, long ago, she played the role of bread at the last supper,
begging Christ to Choose Her.
I think she was chosen, but not the way she might have planned.
And what she forgets might be blocking stories waiting to be told.
I’m glad we share these years as we grow old.