An Aching

We meet doing laps around the mall,
Traveling in opposite directions.
It’s a prelude to our senior naps, we laugh.
I’ve not seen her since we ran across each other
Sometime in the late 70s, and stopped for coffee.
It’s good we look enough the same
That we can still recognize each other.
I’ve thought many times about our conversation,
That day, how coming out of nowhere,
She said she had a tight cervix,
How her boyfriends all mentioned it.
Her children live in Tokyo and New York.
She missed much of her grandchildren growing up
While she’s talking, I wonder if
Two babies might have loosened that tightness.
As we walk away from each other, I relive
That conversation and wonder if
I should have reminded her, see if she’d laugh,
Or maybe show in her expression why
It might not have been a random topic,
Then tell her that I’ve always had an aching
To ask if she brought it up because
She wanted me to see this for myself.