Two grandmothers and my mother,
four generations–skipping one–
on my hall wall
eye-level
I have eyed them each time I pass
for years now
and as the years pass
they grow younger
before my eyes,
the two grandmothers.

Not my mother.
She stays the same,
a wispy-haired, timid mite
in the middle
of her old age on her left
and Aunt Rose’s old age on her right.

Over time, as I go by,
my eyes have come to notice
we are gradually converging,
my great great grandmother,
my great grandmother,
and me,
until I may have already met and bypassed the younger.

Winging on,
I move at unbelievable velocity
(who could have convinced me how fast life passes?)
toward overcoming the elder as well.

Published in REFLECTIONS: Ultra Short Narratives
Telling Our Stories Press Collection