Far from Farm Barn

“Fair to middlin’…,” she says,
visibly, audibly,
olfactorily tired.
Like a threshold, I think
to myself but say nothing
since she looks and sounds
unready for clever or even
philosophical fat chewing.
“How have you been?”
I had asked reflexively.
“Fine, and you?” That’s what
I expected if I expected
anything at all. But instead,
a verbal grimace, “Fair to
middlin’.” I can’t help but
prologue her assessment:
“I’m going down fast, crashing,
sinking, drowning… Yep, already
down from fair to middlin’.”
She’s roughly my age, a little
older, maybe five hard years,
smack dab in the middle
of middle age. Misery
loves company, right?

A snapshot, a quick vignette, a stolen moment. Borrowed. Still rough, still evolving, but ready to share.

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