age ii
05.27.08 / 4:42 pm

about a month ago, on the evening train, i met a woman -
maybe eighty, with eyes of no few centuries' age,
she hummed under her breath as she crocheted.
it was some old song of her youth, she said,
with name and lyrics lost to time's assault on memory,
only a silk-smooth melody remained.
she showed me pictures of her daughters,
two, each so like the other,
both with the diamond-cut features of their mother;
bright, rosy cheeks, crooked grins, well-pressed dresses,
clear, even in the faded photographs.
i voiced my fears about the future, questions of my happiness;
and in response, she placed her hand upon my shoulder,
saying that she had lost all regret
about her course as she had gotten older;
"good and bad, it's all part of the experience," she said.