As a nearly 70 year old daughter of a 90 year old woman is there a time when I might stop feeling like a daughter? And what would that imply? In between long days on the allotment when the sun's out, one of them a 10 hour stretch, which was a stretch and re-set, I began to respond to Girl, a prose poem by Jamaica Kincaid.
It shocked me when I first read it, but then I re-read and re-read and began to understand its rhythms, the depths it reaches in the relationship between a mother and daughter, the mother's fear, the daughter's rebellions, the information a mother must pass on, the necessary bluntness.
I was at Mum's yesterday. She complimented me on my brown trousers. I made them from backdrop material Giya gave me when she had no more use for it. I want to make a red pair in the same style, the linen's in a plastic storage box. I haven't had the time or energy but I'm going to drag it out now.
As for the idea of a senior special, it just fell into the bag of stuff I'm worked up about - rain, ageism, too many phone calls to sort stuff out, so little respect for my time, the bin men taking my glass recycling box - and found a fabulous project I wish I'd known about sooner. At least I've heard about it now. The name says it all, Uncertain Futures. The senior special isn't anything special. Of course it's not. The best thing about retirement is the free bus pass which I also see as a pass to random conversations with strangers. But not between 4am and 9am when you have to pay.
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