Moving to a new city and state in a few weeks.
Overwhelmed with sadness and a sense of dread.
Fear of the unknown.
What lies ahead.
A new stage of life in a retirement community.
Will the residents accept me and my PD?
Hope my cognitive and physical health last long enough to enjoy this new
way of life.
I’ll have to be on my best behavior -- a real chore for me.
Decluttering started as a fun task.
Should have done it years ago.
Began slowly looking at each item one by one.
I became more[i]selective of what I kept; threw away hundreds of photos.
Once teeming with children
The neighborhood is now aging,
Baby boomers or there about. In a routine.
Worked in the morning, took care of family in the evening.
Poor Miss Sally looked sad and lonely.
I was going to chat with her one day.
That day never came.
She passed way.
Her passing woke me up to be more neighborly.
A small group of neighbors living close by were of the same mindset.
We had a social clique that was great fun.
The New Year’s Eve parties were the best.
Hate to leave this life I made after retirement.
Someone must be the first to leave.
Wouldn’t want to be the last.
Might as well be me.
Who dreamed up a senior living center with hundreds of lonely Grandmas,
Living in tiny apartments about half the size of our homes?
No deep porches with rocking chairs or swings.
No back yards for grandchildren to roam.
Grandmas’ houses never were four-star hotels.
There was neither room- nor maid-service.
Bring your own snacks; make up your own bed.
What will our grandkids remember about going to grandma’s?
This poem went all over the place.
Did writing it help reduce my stress?
Writing a stream of conscience can be therapeutic.
So can listening to music.
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