Thelma at Sixteen
I knew she was young once
In fact younger than the son
who viewed his mother
as a much older man
pondering the fluidity of age
and wondering how old she was, really:
The freshly minted teen
who knew nothing of husband and sons
and what would come next
or the one whose story I could tell beginning to end
because I witnessed the end
at the same age she was
in the picture.
Or are we all ages layered inside
the same Mother’s Day card,
each number taking its place
beside the last, until
they all add up to more
than any one moment
many moments in one picture
an inexhaustible sum
of life, love, suffering and hope?
vitalwholeness 