My Mother Was Young

My Mother Was Young

My mother was young. I never noticed before
how she ice skated with me on New Year's Eve
glided effortlessly on the ice,  never falling,
or how happy she was when she sewed little doll clothes.

In summer we sat on the front porch steps,
and neighbors would stop by to chat, as we children
played red rover and statue maker in the yard.
Mother's eyes twinkled like the lightning bugs we chased.

My mother was young, I never noticed before
how we made our way to the library ever week and each
came home with an armful of books, and then
at home we sat quietly and read, enraptured with words.

Some summer evenings when the nights were hot and long
Mother declared it was time to go for a 'surprise ride.'
She delighted as she kept me in suspense, gleeful
as a child, as she drove us to some captivating place.

And then in a blink of an eye my mother lost her sight,
became old, could no longer see the beautiful world,
sat more than moved, now with untwinkling eyes.
My mother was young once, I wish I had noticed more.

*****

For my prompt at "What's Going On?"