MOTHER’S DAY ON CHURCH STREET

He wears a suit and tie on Sunday
when the rest of us are happily clad
in shorts and tee shirts.  His black
mustache is neat and trim,
although his hair, long and thick
is streaked with silver.  He walks
close to his wife, occasionally slips
his right hand into that soft spot under
her elbow.  His wife is a lovely woman,
chestnut-colored hair pulled back
off her face into a tight pony tail.
His arms and hands move delicately,
like he’s conducting an allegro movement for strings,
as he saunters alongside her
and the sleeping child she pushes
in a small blue stroller.  From beneath oversized
sunglasses the wife turns to look at him
raises her eyebrows in mock surprise or
bestows a smile of bemused tolerance.  She has
heard her husband’s current complaint before-
how she overcooked last night’s pasta,
or the outrageous cost of everything.
They walk slowly together down Church Street
and into the lazy afternoon light.

A part of me
wants to follow this couple home, recognizes them
from a photograph of myself
taken years ago.  And that part of me
wants to remind these strangers
to pay attention to this moment-to
appreciate the dying light embracing them.
The light will return
another day, but never quite
like this, never again when they are both
this young, their child
this content
listening to the rise and fall
of her parents’ sonorous voices,
drifting into a gauzy sleep
on a late afternoon in late spring,
the sound of the stroller wheels
more soothing than a lullaby.