By Padmini Boruah
You walk these crumbling walkways,
Alone by moonshine,
Fleeing your today,
Stepping softly back
Into your twenty-five-year-old self,
Just as she gave birth.
You wonder who stole the years
Since you pushed your son out
Into a scorching, moonlit, wondrous world,
And let him find his way
Through two decades and five
Of school, drums, and housework.
You step back into your soul,
Searching for the girl you were,
Sifting through two decades and five
Of mothering, poetry, and classwork.
Memory walks with you
Along the crumbling walkways,
Alone by moonshine,
Resentful at the foolish heart
That let go of the apron strings
And let your boy grow.
You want them to meet-that girl, and this boy, at age twenty-five.
You want him to see why he is.
You need her to see why he is.
You gaze longingly at the crumbling walkways,
Looking for a little boy
Who tore along its edges,
Clanging an off-tune bell on a plastic tricycle,
A lifetime ago.
You retrace your life-walk,
Alone by moonshine.
You step out of your dreams.
You wait for the dust to settle,
And let yourself, quietly,
Back into reality.