No, Ma, you are not a size 14 or an XL—
you’re the incredible shrinking woman,
well below your high school weight
of 118, a whopping 101 now,

a size 8 at best and certainly
a petite. No, you’re not 5-feet-4
any more. I’m 5-feet-4, and look,
you’re at least two inches shorter,

so yes, that makes you a petite.
So here, I ordered you some
8P pants to see how they fit.
I know your 12s still sort of fit

thanks to the stretchy waists,
but you look like you’re wearing
bloomers—there’s so much extra
fabric around your hips and thighs.

Though size doesn’t matter, Ma.
Look at you on a typical Momday:
acupuncturist, then lunch and
chiropractor, then to Curves

to do all the machines twice, and,
come evening, singing baritone
at Sweet Adelines rehearsal.
There may be less of you, but

you’re wringing every bit of life
out of this one. Yes, I know
you hope for reincarnation,
and you plan to make it to 120,

but Ma, I’m having a hard time
keeping up with you. And see?
Those 8Ps fit you just right.
How ’bout that?

And look at you—going through
the too-bigs, letting me bag them
for donation, keeping some
favorites, ordering smaller sizes.

Smaller does not mean less
than, Ma. You’re a pint-sized
pack of strong woman, and
your daughters are taking

notes on How to Be a Vibrant
92-year-old. Yes, vivacious
too. Full of vim and vigor.
And with, God help us all,

no small amount of spunk.*

(*Lou Grant may have hated spunk,
but we love yours!)