Basketball Drills at Sixty Beat Me Fair
Client is sixty. Former point guard. Footwork still perfect. I demonstrated a crossover and my knees filed a complaint. Personal training is humility with a...
#aging
Dorothy Beat Me at HORSE Again
Dorothy is eighty-two, recovering from a hip replacement, and she still beats me at HORSE in the gym because her set shot has not changed since 1962 and my a...
I Talk to the Radio When the House Is Quiet
Public radio in the kitchen. Not for news. For voices. The house is quiet in a way that used to feel peaceful and now sometimes feels like a held breath. I a...
The Library Book Was Due in 2019
I found a novel in the coat pocket I have not worn since before the pandemic. Due date stamped 2019. The fine is probably astronomical. I returned it anyway....
I Forgot the Bridge and the Room Forgave Me
Senior moment on stage. Mind went blank mid-bridge. Forty years of muscle memory failed for four seconds that felt like four years. The bassist caught the fo...
The Young Pianist Played My Voicings Wrong on Purpose
Gig at the wine bar. Kid on keys, twenty-two, played my voicings from the chart, then started substituting like he was auditioning for my chair. First instin...
The Lambing Season That Didn't Need Me
Lambing season, and my knees are not what they were. My son did the night checks. I sat by the range with tea, listening to his boots in the yard, feeling us...
My Neighbor's Hedge and the Politics of Looking Away
Harold trimmed his hedge again at six in the morning. Electric trimmer. Third Tuesday in a row. We have lived beside each other for nine years and exchanged...
The Grocery List Is the Last Honest Document I Write
I wrote milk on the list, crossed it out when I remembered the half carton in the fridge, then wrote milk again an hour later. This is my literary life now:...
What October Teaches You to Keep
An essay on why the small, unhurried moments of daily life — frost, a daughter's call, a slow book — matter more than a productivity culture admits.
You Have Earned the Pillows
A short, sharp editorial on aging, authority, and the quiet right to stop explaining yourself — told through one exchange with a four-year-old.
You Don't Stop Playing. You Just Ice More.
A drummer at 50 reflects on chronic pain, a telling look from his orthopedist, and why stopping was never a real option.
Dorothy Is 82, Has a New Hip, and Is Beating You
A physical therapist's 82-year-old patient shames her into rethinking motivation. Dorothy has a new hip, a cruise booked, and no excuses. Do you?