Today's poem is by Mark Cox

Wonder Bread
       

Lately, I meet mornings unsure of what to do with myself. I can either go to my desk or not—it doesn't really matter. It's not like when something really had to happen, no matter what. The kids needed to be at school on time, lunches must get made, the world would tilt if I turned my head even a moment. I miss assembling those lunches: the baggies of carrot sticks and apple slices, the pudding cups, sandwiches stamped in circles (only creamy! no crust!) and those colorful, cartoon lunch boxes by which they made themselves known—Ninja Turtles, Buzz Lightyear, Miss Kitty, Shrek. My children are grown. When I meet them for dinner, they clean their plates without having to be told. Sometimes they even pick up the check, leaving tips I am proud of, before looking both ways and easing safely out of the parking lot back into their lives. While I, I return here, to wake in the morning with my faithful dog and think shall I go to my desk or not? A few more words in me or not? It all really seemed to matter once, not long ago, and I'm glad it did. I wouldn't change much. Truly, what I fear most about aging is dementia, not remembering my kids. I watched a movie the other day starring Rita Hayworth. Known as "The Love Goddess," the most popular pinup girl of World War II, she, not Ginger Rogers, was Fred Astaire's favorite dance partner. And she died in her sixties unable to remember any of it. Her costar, though this is another story, never got another good part. He passed in his mere fifties—just drank himself to death. Stardom is hard on people. Give me the simple life. If I do get Alzheimer's, let me get stuck reliving those mornings making lunches. The same thing over and over again. Everybody late, rushing around, cramming stuff into bookbags, and scurrying out to the car. Then piling in together. Just being there, buckled in next to each other, sitting in line, waiting to drop off at the front doors. I could wait like that. I could wait like that for as long as it takes.

Tweet

Copyright © 2024 Mark Cox All rights reserved
from Knowing
Press 53
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission