Learning to Play at Eighty As a young child I drew, painted, modeled clay hunted for fossils, swung on vines— ran free in acres, woods Then bore a son: malformed heart, stroke, hospitals, blood Calls too close to count I couldn’t find my skin Bullied, shunned in school and out Days clutched by fear, grief, a mother’s feral fury How could they? Now old, and my son fifty-one time at last, inclination to play office become studio table strewn with paints
Hooray for painting! And what a succinct, poignant history relayed in this poem. The reader shares the narrator's sorrow and fury, too... and relief, at last, as the title so well says, "learning to play." And at eighty! Bravo, you!
Gosh that sounds tough. But how wonderful to have this life now with your son and be able to PLAY! Bravo.
a blessing to us all!
Hooray for painting! And what a succinct, poignant history relayed in this poem. The reader shares the narrator's sorrow and fury, too... and relief, at last, as the title so well says, "learning to play." And at eighty! Bravo, you!