"Hurry"

We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store

and the gas station and the green market and

Hurry up, honey, I say, hurry, hurry,

as she runs along two or three steps behind me

her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down

as she likes them.

Where do I want to hurry her to? To her grave?

To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?

Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her

Honey, I’m sorry I keep saying Hurry—you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.

And hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking

back at me, laughing. Hurry up now, darling, she says

hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.

-Marie Howe