Quality Of Life...
F
Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr
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Quality Of Life...
She stopped to rest her varicose legs,
on a shard splintered bench in the bog,
not more than a Greenwich Village block,
from her room at the Wellington Home.
Mid-afternoon soon became the night.
August in New York tends to challenge
the fortitude of the sick and elderly,
by its throes of oppressive summer air.
They found her on the bench the next day,
before the Sun had chance to break the sky.
Neighbors said she never paid attention
to their pleas for their friend to stay home,
fearing her legs would fail, form blood clots.
That's no way to live, she'd always say;
her friends would smile, shake their heads,
go back inside their rooms...wait for lunch,
then walk to the TV room for gossip and Oprah,
masking depression with façades of smiles.
Their friend challenged life and conquered,
for, she lived her eighty plus years
on her own positive terms, and the knowing
that she'd not outlive the others, but,
that she'd already long outlived them all
in enjoying the best of everyday that life-
had to offer...An offer, she never refused.
©Frank James Ryan, Jr./FjR
MMXV-All Rights Reserved
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