Mothers of a Certain Age

I found this poem by Gina Sangster over 10 years ago in the Hill Rag. It speaks to me even more now that I’ve planned a Greek getaway with girlfriends.

We recline on lounge chairs alone; no fortress built of draped towels surrounds us. We hold books aloft, our eyes and faces shaded by dark glasssor broad-rimmed hats. Our one-piece bathing suits; black to obscure what hours at the gym can’t cure. Our toe-nails painted to match our coloring—orangeor purple, magenta, rose. Some of us dye our hair, others are brave enough to display the gray. We tan our bodies under a glaze.

Occasionally we glance in the direction of a crying child, but none of us moves or feels responsible. We dip into the pool for adult swim;

no squirming wet toddlers dive into our arms. Our sons and daughters are far away and watch the younger mothers through the filter of our memories.

They have no idea what the future holds when al the little girls in pink bikinis,the boys in Hawaiian print trunks become voices calling on cell phones from other coasts, overseas, Peace Corps posts, apartments we’ve never seen with unruly roommates we’ve never met…

Here at home, we come and go as we please, the late summer sun still bright above the stand of trees.