Dream Girl Aged

We walked the road, Hammocks Gap,

going towards a brilliant sunrise,

climbing the basin at the back.

The hill felt big, where the light didn’t touch it, there was the still of night

and up and up went the sun rising to a pin prick,

to laser point brightness…

dotting the landscape with the same great distractions

used to pull a fast one on Mr. MungBeans of 7th grade English fame.

Why do the ones I love most

only pick up when

they feel there is something to tell?

I would hold their silence as if it was worth boasting.

Sometimes it is. Nothing new to report, a budding victory to me.

Every age is a hard age (growing pains),

but at 88 she nods to agree,

the adolescence of humanity will be the death of me.

I think of the My Chemical Romance Song:

They said, “Teenagers scare the livin’ shit out of me”
They could care less as long as someone’ll bleed
So darken your clothes, or strike a violent pose
Maybe they’ll leave you alone, but not me…”

Hard fought fear, so even when a fire comes, she shrugs to say,

at least it is not a bomb.

In relation to my mom’s haphazard momming (there are too many to mom upon, the elders, the youth, the middle aged, the de-aging) my grandmother is ready to lapse into the teenager she never was,

that she could never be without being slapped.

Calling the laser pointer to mind,

there is always more to learn in motherhood,

always fading and brightening, in gradient,

a care of sorts as glow,

life giving even in negligence (learning pains).

Scolding set up to snooze,

slapping the alarm clock, dying for defiance, ribbing your convenience,

as the ascent continues.