When your mother was your age
she lived alone, like you do.
She walked everywhere
and never drove,
you don’t know where she went.

For you, always interruptions –
a crossword clue
you can’t figure,
the cat at the door,
the radio alarm,
a mockingbird or blue jay
raucous in the yard.

At your age, you never walk.
Your body is antique glass
melting down to the bottom.

Stairs daunt you,
but you take them
four times daily.

Your mother owns the mountaintop,
never has to worry about her view.
In your yard the bushes have all grown tall
your view is narrower each summer.

In your house it’s the same –
trails are starting to form,
the open spaces filling up.