My mother would be ninety-eight today
if she’d struggled through these nearly three
more years. I do not wish that on her, no.
She lived far too long as it was, longer
than she bargained for, though not as long
as our Great Aunt Irene, who was 104
when she died. Or was it 105?
I’ve allowed myself a few seconds
to imagine what that might be like.
Forty more years beyond these sixty?
The thought of it exhausts me even now.
No, my mother set her goal plenty high.
Twenty more years will give me all the time
I want, all I’ll ever need and I imagine my
mother would approve.