When the Door Closes

My secret life as a poet, writer, photographer…


growing older

My mirror lies constantly;
who’s that lady reflected?
That’s not me!
With the gray strands
and the oval face
more my mom’s than mine.
Yes, my mirror lies
for in amber light,
I see the me I remember.

Posted for and very loosely inspired by the Daily Prompt: The Clothes (May) Make the (Wo)man
©2015 V. del Casal All Rights Reserved

H - Hands

My grandmother’s hands
are wrinkled now,
mapping her life in creases and lines,
the skin of caramel brown
fading and dotted with spots.
They still dance, though,
over the cutting board
and pan of frying fish,
but the tempo is slower,
motion less refined.
Soon she hands me the spider
to plate the fish when once
she would have resisted
my attempts to help.
My grandmother’s hands
are wrinkled now,
and I only just noticed.

Written for the A to Z Challenge and NaPoWriMo
© 2014 All Rights Reserved



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