For my Mom

She knuckles away a tear, then lets the years slip away.
Her mouth forms an "O" of surprise.
She fixes her gaze on the horizon.



Small dusty lane.
Small bare feet.



Watchful maternal eyes following their thundering gallop down the path.
Four generations.
Their walks on this path overlay one another.
Time after time, mother after mother.



Small dusty lane.
Small bare feet.



Film of years slips over her eyes as vellum.
They water and through the bubbly distortion the years are gone.
She watches the small feet run.
She thinks of other small feet.
Young mother, young life.



Small dusty lane.
Small bare feet.



She wants to stand here.
Freeze frame.
To stop the thundering, the galloping.
Just for a moment.
Memory wash.



Small dusty lane.
Small bare feet.



It is the same lane. Only the feet have changed.
It is the same family. Only the mothers have changed.



So this is what it means to feel the ache of time passing.

*Edited to add a generation - my great-grandmother kept a garden on the farm from the time I was small. She saw plenty of barefoot children, too. I had forgotten about that for a moment. :)