She looks like a teenager there on the couch, her white hair fresh cut, her eyes innocent, trying to understand the world I’m raging on about.
I think, it’s safe to hug her now.
I put her arms around me, lay my head on her shoulder. Rest.
Her arms begin to tighten.
How did she get to be so strong?
In my ear, the old voice says, I’m sorry, I was a terrible mother.
Those old arms have locked tight. I struggle to get free.
Come back, I cry. Come back to the present. Tell me you love me!
She says the words. I know she wants them to be true.
I say them back to her. She nods slowly. She wants them to be true.
An old brain is like a bridge built up with mud and straw.
They say some people lived on London Bridge their whole lives.
Is it a bridge if you never leave it?