Sometimes it is because of friends–more often it is my family, my children, my grandchildren. A memory can do it or a clouded eye, an averting of the face. Little noted, except perhaps to the mother, the telling wisp of a smile, the brave mask. The aborted dream, the reach that didn’t make it.
…It bends me over and I cry.
Secrets I know. Boulders I see on the trail the young ones will take. Swamps and dark places.
. . . it bends me over and I cry.