Seagulls and pigeons on Santa Monica’s pier watch people.
As much as people watch them.
Just like I watch the grandchildren on 14th Street.
They watch me.
Ask about my age.
Flowers on my shirt, my hat.
My furrowed face.
But, I think I have the better deal.
Watching a sibling group coalescence.
Without being sibling or mother.
A step away as grandparent.
Seeing rivalry for a parent’s attention.
For equal time, rights.
Sometimes one getting another into trouble.
To provoke disapproval on a parent’s face.
Or showing tenderness, one toward the other.
Offering to help.
Sometimes wanting to be the other.
The eldest or the baby.
Or even the middle.
To achieve a gymnastic feat.
Or solve a problem.
Or, act as helpless as the toddler.
Push, pull of needing, not needing.
Squabbling, sharing.
Teaching, learning.
Thousands of stitches each day.
Producing a unique pattern.
Tight, taut, colorful.
Enduring longer than the parent-child bond.
But, in the day-to-day, who thinks about it?
Only later, at rupture, does the hole become apparent.
Irreparable, tattered, torn.
Early on, threads breathe,
providing an organic net.
Familiarity and protection,
spinning yarns to ne’er forget.
Lynn Benjamin
March 30, 2024
