The Ancestor of Your Years

The ancestor of your years comes
Wrapping and tapping
At the windows, wincing from the walk
Across time’s windblown sidewalks and backyards.

Her face is withered and weathered
But happy to see you nonetheless.
She has traveled far to see you
And has wasted away on the journey.
Locks more grey than gold.
High-top, light-up sneakers flashing faintly
With the waning deliberateness of stepping incandescence.

There’s a smudge of dirt on her face,
Across the palely pink apple of her cheek.
Her missing-tooth grin bared and disarming
For the sheer silliness of it all.
Wispy, wild curls winging
About her delicate face.

In her peerless precociousness,
She walks, phantom-like, right through you
To the matronly figure you know so well
Waiting directly behind your turned back.

Feet rooted, you turn to watch,
Curious yet omniscient.
The pair embrace,
Aged eyelids closed,
And the dull ashen blonde curls
Swaying in a limp pony-tailed bundle.

The phantom fades.  The embrace ends.
And you stare resolutely forward,
Eyelids sliding down over tears
To begin stepping toward
Some descendant’s future.