The Condos at the end of the Cul-de-Sac
“See you at the mail box,” I say to my friends when we speak on the phone. Neighbors we are, one on my left, one on my right, three widows, with me in the middle sharing a condo wall with each. The Merry Widows. Or we were.
a little tipsy
senior decorum slips
with a bawdy tale
Lunches, dinners, shopping. Impromptu gatherings for coffee with freshly baked cookies. All that was before. Before our advanced years and vulnerability made us cautious, made us retreat and pull back, keeping our contacts to the essentials. We keep in touch by phone and emails, gripe, worry, encourage. On occasion we meet outside at the mailboxes, short meetings, voices raised so as to hear words spoken at a distance and through a mask.
“What’s new? Saw the doctor. Ordered online. Catch you tomorrow.”
It’s not enough, but we endure and hope. I collect my mail and retreat, but with a lighter step.
for one or a dozen
it’s about the wait