The swirl of grey hair
held with an antique pin,
the fringed shawl
around her shoulders
as she pushes the grocery cart
through the faux tropics
of the produce aisle,
are like the smell of popcorn
on the city street
that recalls a matinee.
She will hug her son
describe her garden
ask about my daughters,
until she turns
to examine avocados
and the glimpse is all I have.
Grey Sparrow Journal 