who do you yearn to reach

through the silver mirror

whose being raises your hairs

widens your eyes

brings your grey cheeks colour

which lively soul do you insist upon

tying your arms around

never to let go

She arched her back one more time, before bending back down to her task. She thrusted the large pestle round and round, thinning the grain few at a time. The granite mortar screeched as she mixed again, round and round, for what felt like hours. After a moment, she let go of her tight grip of the pestle, and gave an appreciative sigh of the beautifully thinned flour that lay before her eyes.

"Yara!"

While pushing her matted hair off her face with the back of a hand, she turned her head at the sight of the three men, coming in their cavernous home with large sacks balanced on their shoulders. "More wheat for us, mama," the boy said with a grin. Yara closed her eyes and groaned.

In that summer when you left out of sight, which person came out of the bushes and took a peek out to see if you were alright and breathing? When you rejected the hand that came to bring you back to life, who sat beside you and held your hand as you lay exhausted? You may be old now, memories dusty, but don't you dare forget them.