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Rated: E · Poetry · Family · #1558393
A mother clings to the past--for a brief moment

"The children are grown, you should downsize now!”
Those words cut through me harshly; how sad I felt.
“The bikes are rusty and are of no use, and what about that toddler car?
My goodness, he is almost an adult!
Why do you keep them, rotting away on an earthen bed?
There is no room in the little shed!”
I don’t reply out loud,
But I think to myself ...
They, each and every one of them, have a personality of their own.
That toddler car--a Christmas gift, when my son was three.
He awakened; looked toward the tree.
The gleam in his eyes,  shone brighter than any ornament.
Time moves on ...
Whenever I saw that toddler car,
I thought about one night, and a new smile was born.
The chubby, little feet pushing along the floor, at some wee hour of the morn;
Noisily appearing at the bedroom door.
He was grinning, laughing, with a little squeal,
While honking the horn on the steering wheel.
And, those rusty old bikes of yore?
They were enjoyed by my girls--all four .
I saw laughter on their faces as the wind blew through their hair.
Now I feel a sense of despair.
Is my job over?
Must I accept that these things are just outdated?
They were useful once and appreciated.
I realize they’ve grown,  with children of their own; time moves on.
My heart felt a strain and I endured the pain,
When these objects of  motion,
Were lined up by an old maple tree,
With a sign that said “take it, for free,”
I felt such a sadness, creeping over me.
I looked out the door,
Hours after the death sentence was bestowed,
On the little car and the rusted bikes.
Watching as they disappeared,
One by one,
On a late spring day,
With a fading sun.
My eyes burst forth with tears,
Unexpected and uncontrolled.
“They are going to a better place,” I was told.
I could not believe, that they would be memorialized,
As they were here,
Sitting in my backyard, year after year;
Rusting away, from late fall through September,
Season after season  ...
Just one of  a mother’s days to remember.

48 Lines


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