Eleven Years
Pumpkin soup and hot sausage rolls and clocks that tick… their old fashioned metre summoning us toward the future. My daughter turns eleven next week. Eleven years, shot by like a contrail and dispersing as it recedes. Is it normal to do your growing in the white fuzz of your mother’s memory? The magic stretch of bone and skin perceived in hops like a row of snapshots on a timeline.
This young person before me could once do little more than breathe, eat and sleep. And here she is, full of her own thoughts and experiences, arguing and laughing with me. Playing the cello, her fingers confident as spiders.
a hen pecks at last night’s roast slow revelation of bone, opaque intensity.
Written for Go Dog Go Cafe’s Haibun Wednesday Prompt “Time”
Out of the Cave 
Luxurious imagery (as always). Eleven is such a wonderful age! Also, pumpkin soup and hot sausage rolls sound soooo good right about now! 😀 I appreciate your writing so much. 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks Mike! Lovely comment! 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
I remember when my youngest was eleven. He turned 42 this week. And now I want a sausage roll.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ha ha. I could post you one. Might be a little… underwhelming when it got there though.
LikeLiked by 1 person
It’s 32°c, the kitchen is hot, and I can’t stand the thought of cooking anything. 😩
LikeLiked by 1 person
urk. Sounds like creative salading is the go. My Mum is a genius at creative salads but sadly I don’t have her knack.
LikeLike
lovely homage; my daughters are all mothers now but I remember the awe of seeing them grow up; and I still like pumpkin soup and hot sausage rolls 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
awe is a good word for it!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Ohhhh…I love, love this line – Is it normal to do your growing in the white fuzz of your mother’s memory?
Well done on your complementing haiku ♥️
LikeLiked by 1 person
Many thanks, Donna!
LikeLiked by 1 person