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When I was young I had your back
by uneven steps on the sidewalk.
I’m sorry I stopped paying attention.
I had destinations.
I almost tripped over your broken back.
Then the dandelions pushed through
to see if I would look down.
I kicked the buds off their bases.
The cement was mine and I
didn’t notice the shin splints.
The wheels turned.
Skateboards and bicycles.
The bumps shot up my spine.
Then I got off the walk by
borrowing your car.
I left you by the side of the road.
I was center lined and selfish.
Things were said, better off dead.
Your broken back.
Your broken heart.
I’ve seen my kids stutter step
down the walk protecting
a spine of a mother kind.
When will they stop looking down?
Their mom wants them to look up…
to watch were they are going.
But I hope they look back
occasionally and see the curved
back they once protected.
For My Mother
Gerald the Writer 
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