I remember the day well.
I remember the night too, of walking
to ease the relentless pain in my back.
I was seventeen; how was I to know that this,
this dull, repetitive ache
was the beginning of the labor for your birth?
It was five weeks before you were due to leave my womb
and so I walked, and watched the morning sun
rise golden through green April trees.
Hours later, as the sun began its descent I beheld you,
held you only briefly but in your eyes I saw
myself, yourself, and the years
the stretched before us,
a winding, unmarked path.
Forty-six years later
we have traveled over half, I suppose
of the journey laid before us on that April day.
Others on our journey have fallen from the trail
while new ones have taken their place.
It has not always been a easy path;
darkness overtook us a time or two
and we struggled through some rough uphill terrain.
Ahead the way narrows and somewhere,
probably when we least expect it,
there will come an end to my path
and dark will descend again.
I will leave you to journey on your own.
Fear not; I will be watching over you and yours
as you move ahead into the light.