Maiden Mother Crone

Walking to the library
the baby snugly wrapped in the stroller
mid-December wind making my forehead ache
struggling to push through frozen slush

ahead I see an old woman
bent in half like a broken branch
with a spine I can feel
collapsing in on itself
she can only stare at the ground

she is wearing neon and grey high top sneakers
white socks
polyester pants
tattered winter coat unzipped

her hands are shockingly bare
gnarled
waxy white with cold
clutching her wallet
uncertain about crossing the road
to the waiting warmth of the donut shop

my first reaction is irritation
the next moment brings compassion

I bend way over to look up into her face
and offer to help
she is confused and mutters to herself
apologizes for not being able to see me

she takes my gloved offering
we move cautiously across the street
navigating ice and other treacheries
as I push the stroller with one hand
and guide her along with the other

I know with certainty my place on the great wheel
propelling my daughter
fresh in the world ahead of me
myself a new mother in between
bearing the ravaged bird hand of old age

Catherine Heighway