another room

your
mother is getting
younger.
the lines
of worry on her
face
have turned
to soft flour.
her brown eyes
are even
browner in
this November
light.
she sits at the bare
table
and smiles,
laughs as a child
would and asks
so how are you.
you try not to cry.
try not to show
how sad
you are at her
being old,
her becoming a
child again.
she doesn't want
you to go and takes
your hand.
don't leave
me here, she says.
you wish there
was a way to tell
her that
you are always
together.
that you aren't leaving,
but just moving
to another room.