Between

On the back of the rocking

chair hangs her shabby

sweater and I remember

how she would slip little

notes in the stretched and

over- used pockets. Under

her eyes the dark half moons,

eyes never smiling only the

tired willingness. She had a


habit of sucking on her bottom

lip as if she were trying to draw

in strength. Every life has its

theme and hers was stamped

with reliable. I can feel the


yellowed note beneath my

fingertips. The paper crackles

as the words slip and dance

over my tongue;


Courage to change

is found

in the quiet,

between

one moment sliding

into the next.


I wonder why she never told me

as my grief pours through old scars.