Pink Lattes and A Slice of Poundcake

 I've been losing parts of myself and finding others during the months of silence at the end of thought. It is a funny thing, as a writer, to put down one's pen or lift one's hands from the keyboard to just consider the ways of presence. I've asked myself if what I have to say is enough of enough to put into the world. If the thoughts are incomplete, unfinished, and inconsequential.  My oldest son, my muse, has been telling me for years to write. He keeps telling me that my story, my experiences, the ways that I have overcome challenges and climbed mountains, would be helpful to a newer generation pining for elders.   Age has creeped up on me in unexpected ways. My husband says we are not the elderly, or even seniors, even if the medical world wants to place that moniker on our charts. We both eat healthy (even if we sneak a few snacks) and maintain our spiritual, mental, and physical well-being. But age is doing what age does and one of the things it has been doing wit...

 Let me get out the way what I said to survive -  because of the ones who claimed to be more important believing my breathing was distracting from their use of my presence to achieve their goals without regard to  what I  needed

 how much of ourselves do we erase while trying to  live in a space where they think our very existence is  in the way?