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Old
In one day my mother grew old. She was no longer able to hold my hand, stroke my hair from scarred temple, and say, in the face of all the worlds weight and disregard, that nothing was so important as I. She was too feeble, too near death, too lost in memory, dead to the moment before her. Up until then, regardless of grey and thinning hair, regardless of wrinkles and patchy skin and uncertain eyesight, she was still young in my eyes, and I, a youth before her. Now, she is no longer herself. And I am no longer part child. |
Old © 1998 by Tobin James Mueller
"Ash" published by ArtsForge Press.
All rights reserved.