Two or three times a year I make trips to Chennai to be with my parents for a few weeks. My mother is 85 years old. I notice every shade of emotion that runs along her wrinkles as she narrates incidents from her childhood days . . . and I do notice the mischievous sparkle in her eyes that tells me she remembers the number of times she has repeated these stories to me.
the nemesis of growing old – looking everywhere for my glasses but in the mirror
(“the nemesis” first published in Ribbons, winter 2015