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”