For them, but not for me
I watched them run the length of the rec,
they streak ahead like hares in spring.
My body, slower now, keeps its own company
a gentler wind, a narrowing compass.
What is this grief?
A gate I didn’t notice until it closed,
a map redrawn without consulting me.
The ache of falling behind
a soft-spoken tutor in letting go.
I learn to walk the edges instead,
to see them off, then greet them at the end.
Legacy is a kind of quiet cartography,
tracing routes for them, but not for me.
And when they sprint beyond my sight,
I feel the tug of something tender:
they carry skills like pocket talismans,
small and steady as a stone warmed by the sun.
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