Circulating

She wiped her hands on her inherited apron and caught a reflection in the chrome of the kitchen faucet, where the spigot always ticked: drip, drip... a dampened, furrowed brow, silvery waves, dim sarcastic quips... had she grown out or in? stretched or cramped?

All this time, here, but away: counting pins...

A rolling pin in hand, the tool of now...

The pins that pulled at her hair, clamping the past...

That gold pin of hope weighing at the gingham lapel...

Them game pins, reservations, little grand-kids' birthdays...

well pinned, standing solemnly on the needles of many someone's aching feet.