I move toward my task
and before I know it, my immediate purpose
Something happens without my knowledge.
Then, as I spy my image in the mirror
at the end of the corridor
I straighten up
hips and shoulders undulate
with a cadence
I recognize as mine.
I'm older than my parents were the last time I saw them
older than they appeared in any photograph
they took in their late years. I knew not
what their thoughts were
when I chose not to write
not to visit
not to care enough to recognize their
old age pains.
I'm sure they forgave my sin of youth.
My children, my parents
all move in my body, down that corridor,
longing for a
moment of recognition,
that is neither the past nor the future
but a present
weight of this moment.