The Shy Child

July 18 2017

The shy child

peering out between his mother's legs,

sheltering against

her concealment, her body heat,

his pudgy grip

on her pant, or skirt, or stocking leg's

soft warm material

its reassuring scent.

And now

I see her in her 90s,

shrunken, frail

the cellophane skin of the elderly

with its blotches, and wrinkles, and broken veins.

Still clutching

a battered black purse

with its dark bottomless mysteries.

Hard of hearing, hard of smell,

so our conversation

is mostly wordless,

the scent of perfume

overwhelming.

Once, she stood between me and the world

like a thick-walled fortress.

A duty

I cannot return,

reversing roles

as if she were still an innocent child

and I a monolith.

Because there is no sanctuary

from loss,

only consolation

in the inevitable succession of time

and strength

and generation.

And because instead of being shy

with imagined worries,

she is certain in her fear

and even somewhat curious.

With all the differences

that afflict the world

— the paths we take, what fate determines —

we all begin and end exactly the same,

nuzzling at a mother's breast, grasping reflexively,

then inexorable death's

black bottomless mystery.

Anxious, at first

like that powerless child.

Then clear-eyed

with acceptance.