During promenades in languid evenings when she,
I and silence walk side by side,
the summer sun bids goodbye to the now cooling
earth underneath and the distance
between us is much more than it was in times
when we talked of the boy who’d blush when
I looked at him, when she told me how she saw Physics
as her nemesis back in her school days, when I told her
about a friend who is now a treasured memory.
She’d listen. I’d ramble. I’d do the same when her soft lips
moved to weave tales of her laborious childhood.
That was a long time ago. Back when Trump was still
railroading his way through Presidential elections.
Back when terrorist groups did not ram into strangers
on the London Bridge. My bond with her collapsed like
a brick wall around this time frame. And, ever since then, we
spend our evenings sucking sadness and melancholy
from the nightly air. We let the quiet whispers of the wind
do all the talking while we gaze into each other’s eyes as we
watch the mother-daughter bond fall apart like sand sculptures.