Time

Time traveled so slowly when I was young
Yet the bits and pieces only take a second to recollect
So much pain, interminable then

Where are the years when my children grew up?
A birthday party, ballet recital, old photograph
That young woman is me
And isn’t

Thirty-three years married
And nine before that
Twelve watching a body and mind
Shrivel before me
Death long before the heartbeat ceased

Now the years are counted in deaths
Two husbands, Dad, nephew, aunts, cousins, uncles
Dear friends who retired too late
Soft furred friends who stayed to help me through

My wrinkled mom danced and gardened
Then fell. Two falls,
One on the dance floor
The second, a slow decline through dementia and death

Now the days disappear without accomplishment
Grandchildren, puppies
Gardens, detritus
Grow before pen reaches paper

I stare at the keyboard in disbelief
Whose wrinkled hands are these?

(c) Barbara Huntington