Her life’s not done at one hundred and one.
She passes her time in the warmth of the sun.
She sits in the sunroom, confined to a chair,
wondering what she’s doing in there.
All is gone of the life she once knew.
except for a fleeting memory or two.
With no place to go, she feels empty inside.
“Please,” she asks. “Can we go for a ride?”
When life’s not done at one hundred and one,
must we be content to just sit in the sun?
Is there nothing else left at one hundred and one?
© 2016, Lina Rehal. All rights reserved.
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