Penelope Thompson was born in New Rochelle, New York in 1937 and graduated from Mount Holyoke College, New York University, and the University of Massachusetts. She is a recently retired clinical psychologist and professor, now in a second career as a Buddhist hospital and prison chaplain. She is a longtime Buddhist practitioner and currently lives in a Zen Center in Los Angeles.

 Woman of a Certain Age 

I’m older than most people here
at this vacation paradise,
where the smell of ginger
rises with every slight breeze.
I’m traveling with my daughter,
who is 16 and beautiful,
easy in her skin.
I could be invisible.
I am invisible to the hoards of young men
with slender hips, whose eyes slide past me,
then snap into focus on my daughter.
A woman of a certain age, such as myself,
could be brought to her creaking knees.
The staff call me mamá.
I am a function, an anglo dueña.
So today I fight back,
hit a double in a softball game,
catch a pop fly that makes the third out,
kyack a few miles,
snorkel and swim with the clown fish.
Did I mention yoga at sunrise,
naked on my balcony,
then writing a poem that pleases me?
But tonight, after a leisurely dinner,
my daughter heads for the disco.
On the way back to my room, I pass a couple.
They are just about my age.
She has her arm around his waist.
He rests his hand on her hip,
slides it back and forth over her silk dress.
I am aware of Noah’s rule,
all things two by two.
This is the natural order of things.
I am not opposed.
I lie on my bed, under the noisy fan,
sip a second glass of wine,
and read Stones from the River.
Every now and then, I smell the ginger
and I lose my place. 

© Copyright, Penelope Barnes Thompson.
All Rights Reserved.