Despite the upscale environment, afternoons of in-house wine tasting and visiting troubadours, the card games and coffee shop talk, there is an under current of death where my mother lives.
Some cling to and celebrate the life that is left; others are resigned that there's not much time left where my mother lives.
How much better to mix ages and generations rather than reside in an old person's ghetto ~ albeit a nice one ~ where my mother lives.
She likes her independence, as lonely as it may be sometimes where my mother lives.
I like my freedom, as guilty as it sometimes feels, thanks to the place where my mother lives.
How did it come down to this?
Will I, too, someday encounter death regularly and let it take hold of my soul, in a place like the place where my mother lives?
Or will I celebrate and embrace my every breath, even in a place like the place where my other lives?
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