It's as if I'm looking through a keyhole,
the two of them silhouetted against a future bright.
One looms large, admired, fedora tilted over one eye.
The other? Innocence, unaware of flaws in his hero.
Youth demands attention; I make excuses,
my heart tender, understanding both as only a mother can.
If only the hero can comprehend,
for a moment look down, truly see how similar they are.
How once he filled my minutes and hours
with words. Does he remember I listened?
Know I still thrill with the wonder inside him?
Youth needs a hero and he's been chosen.
My youngest and oldest;
boy and young man upon a threshold.
Hero can lend a guiding hand, provide a key
for frontiers yet to be explored.
Worship won't last forever - nor should it.
But the honor, for as long as it is offered,
is a gift few ever receive.
by Margaret Bednar, January 27, 2016
"The important thing in life is to let the years carry us along." Federico Garcia Lorca, Yerma"
This evening I press my ear to your chest,
hear the ocean's waves and laughing gulls
that reside inside, distant laughter of children
you've made fast friends, your voice
calling Mother, come look!"
Close my eyes, see you walk a mermaid's path,
white frothy sea foam and iridescent bubbles
slowly fade and pop as morning's surf recedes,
tears glistening as you mourn their death.
Wrap myself around you, whelk like,
my shell far too fragile for true protection.
Realize tears are as important as laughter
yet my heart bangs along the shore,
chipped and worn, fighting for a journey
resembling my dreams perhaps more than yours.
And there's the fissure as you turn
and take the covers with you surely as decisively
as the tide reclaims what is hers. Always.
So, I settle upon the porch, chastised a bit,
yet revel in the sounds I've heard,
know you are alive and growing,
tumbling along life's shoreline
beneath the laughing gulls.
by Margaret Bednar, March 29, 2018