Fran Porter

The phrase “ assisted living ” spawned their strife . She ’ d never needed help in all her life ! How dare her daughter Claire , without permission , Make such a final , horrible decision !

Though outwardly still always poised and stately , She knows she ’ s been a tad forgetful lately . So what ? The sin is one of mere omission , Not meriting life sentence to this prison !

A radiant-featured girl shows her her room . It is quite pretty — bright , devoid of gloom . A fellow resident smiles while passing by , Lessening a bit her latent urge to cry …

‘ Don ’ t make me turn a cartwheel or rejoice ,’ Growls a begrudging , surly inner voice , ‘ But I might be okay here .’ Her wry laughter At turning cartwheels rings through roof and rafter .

“ D ’ you play Canasta ?” beams the fellow resident . “ We ’ ve got a club here , of which I ’ m the president .” Canasta ? Yes , she used to love the game . But who , these days , even recalls its name ?

“ You ’ d like our club ,” the resident then states , “ We laugh and reminisce as our mandates , Embracing mutual memories and jokes Whose punch lines would be lost on younger folks .”

‘ Don ’ t make me turn a cartwheel or rejoice ,’ Again growls that reluctant inner voice , ‘ But I might be okay here . Back off , though . Turn down the pressure pitch from high to low .’

She ’ s damned if she ’ ll give in without a fight . Yielding too soon would simply not be right . Might she just be okay here ? Hmph . Could be . Do they meet her high standards ? Well , she ’ ll see .

And someday — if the gods decide it ’ s fair — Perhaps she ’ ll even speak again to Claire .

48 | arta . net DREAMS FOR THE FUTURE