My son floats grand dreams on the lake
of his heart as I do, too. One day he says
he’ll make a pot of money enough to
move me and her mother too to
California where both our arms
will reach around grandchildren
who will no doubt be extraordinary
like their parents. Now I hear a
titmouse calling Peter Peter Peter
reminding me that next week
she and he will once again
be miles and then oceans away.
Until next time. Next time.
I sip these hours and days slowly.
