Mother

In the time it takes me to open the door
you’ve aged another year.
I see you sitting there,
watching the birds outside your window
the way you did
on that day I said my first words
in the bedroom of
our big Victorian house.

You live now in this place
where not much is said
except complaints about the weather,
and sometimes “kids these days”
or, on a good day,
an argument about politics.

I finish crossing the room,
and you turn to look at me,
not sure if I might be just another bird
or a memory
that flies away if
you move as if it to touch it.