A Lifetime of Stories: Retired LCC Professor Mary Fox on Poetry, Grief, and Connection

LeBron James was drafted when I was in high school.

I still remember the hype. The high school phenom. The Chosen One. 

Before he ever stepped onto an NBA court, the world already had expectations for who he was supposed to become. More than two decades later, he is still playing. Watching him stay this healthy for so long is incredible. I never call professional athletes fragile because I know if I pick up a box the wrong way, I’ll be giving myself a four- to six-week injury report.

It’s strange how we measure our own lives through other people’s timelines. One day you’re watching an athlete get drafted. The next, you’ve spent over twenty years following their career. It makes you realize you’ve been growing older, too.

When Mary Fox was born, the NBA had only existed for one year. 

During her lifetime, Wilt Chamberlain scored 100 points, color television became commonplace, computers entered our homes and mobile phones changed how we communicate. She has watched nearly eight decades of history unfold.

Mary Fox is one of the elders of The Poetry Room community.

Before retiring, she taught at Lansing Community College. Although she always loved poetry and storytelling, she didn’t seriously share her work until she was 65 years old. She told me she finally had the time and space to give poetry the attention it deserved.

That space came after a season of unimaginable loss. Within a short period of time, Mary lost close friends, family members and eventually her husband to cancer. Doctors initially gave him two to six weeks to live, but he lived for nearly another year.

Mary remembers his cough more than anything. It’s one of those details that becomes impossible to separate from the person you loved. Instead of letting illness define that final year, they filled it with life. Her husband tended the garden he loved and cooked for his family; together they made the most of the time they had.

When I asked Mary how she survived grief, she didn’t talk about being strong. She talked about people. She drew her friends closer and became intentional about spending time with them. She especially appreciated the small acts of kindness, like friends checking in during Michigan’s poor air quality days. Those moments reminded her that connection matters.

Poetry became another way for Mary to connect. She told me writing gives her a voice because older people are often overlooked. Poetry gave her a place to share her experiences and tell the stories only she could tell.

Mary has also seen poetry challenge people. At one Poetry Room event, she performed a poem about needing her husband’s signature to receive a bank loan, reflecting on a time when women were often denied financial independence. During the performance, someone in the audience shouted an expletive and walked out.

The room fell silent.

But Mary finished the poem.

As the host, I walked back onstage, applauded and celebrated her. 

I told the audience that moments like this are what writers hope for. Not because someone walked out, but because the poem reached someone so deeply they couldn’t stay quiet.

That is the power of art. Sometimes the goal isn’t to make everyone comfortable. Sometimes the goal is to make people listen.

My favorite poem from Mary is about grief. It is about making Christmas cookies after her husband died, preserving a tradition embedded with both love and loss. That’s the beauty of poetry. The details make a poem personal, but they’re also what make it universal. Honest storytelling helps us recognize ourselves in someone else’s life.

Mary’s latest collection, Erasure Mark, honors memories, relationships and the people who shaped her life. When I asked if she had any regrets, her answer surprised me.

She wished she had traveled more. Everything else, it seems, she embraced.

LeBron James entered adulthood with the world watching. Mary Fox spent decades quietly living a life worth writing about. One journey began with expectations. The other began with experience. Mary didn’t become a poet at 65 because she was late. She became one because she was ready.

Erasure Mark is available online and at Robin Books.