Just Another Day

by Wanda Mae Shoap

Another birthday is about to roll around and with my turning fifty-eight, I have little doubt that anyone will even stand up to take notice. Not that it's any big deal, because what's the big deal anyway, after having fifty-seven of them before and what can be new that has not already been done before? As I sit here counting the hours that pass and think if I can just last long enough to get past this madding grumpy stage, things will have to go uphill from here on, right? The hours have become a pestilence as the ticking, ticking hours seem to linger endlessly, with boredom, restlessness and idle thoughts rambling through each wasted second while pacing back and forth leads to soreness of parts of my body that haven't been used for most of the fifty-seven prior years. There is no doubt it's a good thing that I've kept my mind from being as idle so that I can remember that October twenty-fifth was the day I had been brought into this grandmother clock of time. And also my having nine grandchildren to keep these legs working, so that even now I can do this prancing around the wooden floors, while trying to remember where I put my darn watch.


Wanda Mae Shoap was born in 1949 in Harrisburg, PA. She is a self-taught artist - she loves to paint landscapes, animals, homes, old mills, the ocean, fruit, and more. She has a website, and worked for over seven years at the local cemetery as a secretary.