Afternoon in Kildonan Mall

I'll be damned
if I didn't see
my mother sitting in the mall.
Not young, but in her last
recognizable unimpaired state,
her face iconic. She always reminded me
of the face on the Indian head nickle,
broad, firm, permanent.

There she was
smiling at the children of strangers.
We all were
attending too much
to the needs of the young.
I know they
deserve a place in the center of the world,
as I once enjoyed it;

but I grow weary of
watching them prance about
when every spot is a gathering place
for soft cheeks and laughter.
"Mother," I anxiously called.
But she didn't recognize me