Walking,
She comes down the aisle,
Second pew, far left.
Her gait is shuffling, halting--
Older than her fifty years.
Singing,
She holds her head high,
Nodding to the music,
Choir days long forgotten,
Standing now a trial too great.
Sitting,
Her scarf-hidden ribs
Heave from the effort.
Salt-and-pepper wig shadows
Eyes full of haggard longing.
Worrying,
Her daughter wraps those
Hundred pounds in arms
Larger than that faint, frail form
And gently pulls her closer.
Helpless,
I watch.
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