My Mother Paces

My Mother Paces

It's too cold this time of year for walks outdoors,
so inside, she chases a buzz at her wrist, a release.
It's unnatural in hallways, the heavy footfall—
like a person continuously realizing an overfull tub,
a golden spark of fire leapt from hearth to rug.
She bites her nails as she goes, fills the house
with a now familiar, now comforting, sense of panic.

My father fiddles with a bluetooth speaker, a gift
from his children, still a wonder to him. He's playing
a new one, his first ever departure from Elton John.
Joni sings about her old man, California, a river
to skate away on. And then she repeats, and repeats.
And I wonder how long before he'd have realized—
how many times would he have listened to Blue?

The kids at the park don't know it's the solstice,
only that their touch football games are ever shorter.
Squinting in blue hoodies, cold hands drop passes.
The universe, I understand, really is quite young,
still has the time to concern itself with itself.
I haven't written a thing since the last one.
The longest and now the shortest—what else?