posted June 28, 2004 05:45 PM         

At six, Mother’s favorite picture was a little girl with curls in satin ribbons, black patented feet crossed at The ankle and hands folded on starched skirt, half-smile and far-away-eyes captured there in black and White remembering another pose in full cowgirl regalia and ear-to-ear grin atop a pony named “Peanut.”

At twelve, I met my father, long awaited Sir Galahad and white steed come to rescue
Fair maiden daughter she stands heart full of love and hope and naivety.

At thirteen, I left my childhood dreams of knights and fathers at the sacrificial alter Of innocence and Camelot Lost
to make way for other knights in need of polish.

At twenty, the melodic tinkle of tips in my pocket eased my weary steps through the doorway home that First day of work and newfound hope for escape from a marriage of misery.
Hope snatched in tiny pieces as I delivered blue-plate specials and mugs of steaming coffee.
Amid stacks of quarters, tales of the day’s events fell silent as blank stares from metallic eyes
On loose change met mine, I waited for an offering of pride, and he yawned, and asked about supper.

At thirty, on soft nights when sleep creeps away and hides in shadows behind the couch, I think of then and Now, tallied scores, progress made, what was lost, what was saved, how I hurt and scars known only to me.

At fifty, I think that I’ll look straight ahead to things unknown and leave that pain just where
I’ll know it is without looking back perchance to risk a salty death.