I let the dogs out to play
as someone knocks on the door.
The dogs run to protect me.
Our grown children have arrived,
unannounced with warm pastries
stacked neatly in a white box.
They came over just to talk,
and hang out. I make coffee;
they say they have some concerns.
The children tell me what’s wrong
with my life. They have a fresh
vision with a narrow view.
What can I do? They know more
than they did, but not enough
of the daily rituals
which have coalesced overtime;
the compromises, and fears
one negotiates for love.
I’ve been there. My mom was old.
I had a grasp on my life,
I thought. I wanted to help.
My tired hubris, like theirs, waits
for the cold ironic turn,
when we’ll both know it’s too late.
For now, it’s much too early.
I pour a cup of coffee,
and watch the dogs play outside.
They yip and nip through the weeds,
tumbling in the back yard,
obliviously happy.
(March 12, 2024)
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