Its noontime andyou’ve just got out of the shower wearing a frumpy terry robe when I call. “Hello” you answer. “Hey Diva,I just wanted to call...you and let you know how happy I am that you’re here,” I say to you. We chat brieflyand you go to sit in front of the TV. You thumb through my DVD's when the phone rings again. It’s me, “I’m coming home.” “Why”, you question me. I respond, “I want to be where you are.”I pull up into the drive and you hear the key in the door. I enter to see you standing. For seven years hubby and I traveled, not just to the San Francisco Bay Area, Los Angles, New York but Asia, Europe, South America. Life was good. A few grey hairs, so what? Nothing a hairdresser couldn't fix.Then came the warnings, hot and cold but brushed aside. Soon after my fifty-third birthday, however, it didn’t happen. It wobbled, then it was a no show.My period missed, not one month but the next and by the third I knew, puberty in reverse, part of me gone, eggless, post-menopausal. I. More

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