Small Gasps

The ticking of a clock

sounds like small gasps

like when a parent sees their child

turn around,

all dressed,

ready for the ball.

But what does it feel like

the other way around?

When a child watches her mother

once a goddess,

glowing gold

grow dusty

as time begin to bury her.

Photographs capture

moments that no longer belong to us,

and yet,

they're how we remember

who we were.

The one standing in front of me now

is newer,

stranger

and each memory made

fills our lungs

with the quiet weight of age.

Can you believe it,

Time?

You’ve seen more than I

.Are you bored by now,

lulled to sleep

by centuries of watching us forget?

But I

I’m wide awake,

inhaling this moment

with disbelief.

How did you get here?

How did you get to us?

In a blink,

the world shatters.

All the pictures

of my mother holding me

replaced

by me

holding my own.

And I don’t feel a golden glow.

Just a strange dust settling.

My eyes start to close

as I watch my daughter,

drifting.

Please don’t grow old.

Please don’t grow old.

I don't dare open them.

I don't dare.