Ode to Grandmas

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Silhouettes of  some of my, now grown, babies.  Yikes!

Some women sit alone,
(of which I may or may not, be one)
all day in kitchens,
remembering the
sounds of the small voices
of those who played at their feet.

(Or fought, depending on the day or minute.)






Once crowded minutes
which were full of:
words,
noise,
squabbles,
housekeeping,
quick smiles, quick tears,
quickly emptied to stillness,
over the years.

(dog barking, is not the same, thought it does break the quiet, unfortunately)

Women working,
waiting, wondering where
other's babies,
who visit, are.

More;
small voices,
quick smiles, quicker tears,
which quickly enter into the heart,
and take up residence.

(glad these babies go home, to return, again)

Paradoxical by nature, love.

In order to truly grow,
one must give it away,
so it will return.*




* the trick of parenting, if indeed there is a trick, is to have your children grow up into adults that do not need you, but want you. Or as I like to say, could survive in the wild (of life).