Seventy Springs | Poetry

I watched you, Mother,

Step beyond your silver hair

And aching knees,

Leaving those seventy-five years

Behind you.

Suddenly,

You were the little girl again,

Pulling on a frilled frock,

Quarreling with your younger brother

Over a rag doll

That belonged to neither of you,

Or a basket of sour mangoes

Neither was willing to share,

While your mother disappeared

Into another room,

Busy with the thousand ordinary things

That kept a home running.

I listened

As your voice found its own music.

It wasn’t loud,

Nor hurried.

It simply carried

The memories of childhood

You had tucked away

For more than seventy springs.

One memory led to another,

Until your childhood memories

Filled the room

As though they had only happened yesterday.

I saw you

Rise out of your tired body,

The one age has slowly taught

To stoop a little,

To walk more carefully.

But none of that belonged to you now.

You stood before your brother,

Tall,

Light on your feet,

Your face bright

With the happiness

Only a sibling bond

Could keep alive.

Then,

Almost without thinking,

You reached up

And tousled his neatly combed grey hair.

He turned away,

Pretending to be annoyed.

You laughed.

For a second,

Neither of you had grown old.

Mother,

I could not stop watching you.

The lines on your face

Were still there,

Yet they no longer asked to be noticed.

Something else had taken their place.

Something had returned.

I could not name it.

I only knew

Your whole face shone.

You spoke about muddy puddles,

Secret escapes,

Long afternoons,

And your little brother

Trying his best

To catch up with you.

Those precious family memories

Were no longer stories.

You were living them again,

And we were lucky enough

To witness them.

Today,

I understood

Why those stories

Never sounded old.

They had waited,

For the right listener,

For your brother

To remember them with you.

For a little while,

The years disappeared.

The little girl

Who splashed through muddy puddles

And laughed over stolen mangoes

Sat beside us again.

And so did her brother.

Then,

Almost before I noticed,

She was gone.

You were simply my mother again,

Smiling,

Your hands folded in your lap,

As though nothing unusual

Had happened at all.

Except that,

Somehow,

You had once again

Waved that invisible wand

Which has followed me

All my life.

Smoothing away

Every fear

Without my ever seeing

How you do it.