David Rosenheim
Not Driving
The biggest little grief
is not driving
she says, twisting her fingers
around the cup handle
her third dose of coffee
losing its heat
not hiking, I can handle
just heading out into the hills
I don’t lose sleep over it
but not driving
not in America
since fifteen!
the loss of independence
my mother wept over that
more than losing her leg
I thumb the back of my hand
the skin still firm
though spots emerging
as a night’s first stars
I am waiting for her to say
the lesson in it—
that if growing old is
a litany of griefs, large and small
it is a practice in letting go
this I could accept
a training in non-attachment
a purification of the soul
but she doesn’t say
anything about that
only a sigh intoning
the heartache over
that which has been lost:
a kayak she had hoped
to glide with river loons
good eyesight, dimming
sale of the old family home
