Rear View Mirror

Now, firmly entrenched in my “semi” retirement years,

the moldy oldy strains of “What’s it all about Alfy? play

on a poorly tuned concertina. Could I have done more?

Did I do enough? Should I have taken a different path?

As I sit on a cold winter morning under a fluffy electric

throw on my sacred chez lounge and tightly shut my eyes,

I hear: Enough! Good Enough! No one died. All are fed

and the sun will still rise.

One daughter wanted me to be Indira Gandhi. The other

expected Betty Crocker. While trying to satisfy both

orders, I had to settle for divorced mom, no soccer, three

jobs, night school and still be the Betty Indira hybrid.

In the end, the score was 0-0. I gave up both images

and took the middle road: a mix of Irma Bombeck

and Mother Teresa.

It’s laughable looking back and gauging all the muddling

and striving to be a better parent, balancing a career,

and somewhat languishing sex life and suddenly, they

were out of the nest and I was 50 with an octagenarian

mom on board. Caregiving became 24/7 as I saddled

up to do High Noon with greedy relatives racing

toward an imagined legacy.