I Crossed the Street Without Looking Today

I crossed the street without looking today. Not even at the flashing sign. Mommy used to hold my tiny hand and tilt her head back and forth, left and right,
peering for the threat of death for minutes before we could finally cross. But not today. I crossed without even looking. Did I tempt the three fates-endlessly spinning
their web of life, snipping away at the stock of humanity? Did I trail my fingernails over the surface of death only to decide no, I'd rather or limestone or burch material?
Did I forget my mother's craning neck, her tired eyes, and gorgeous smile as she held tight to me-her flesh and blood, her body's agony in birth realized,
the love of her life-did I forget what she did for me?

I crossed the street without looking today. Why did I do that?

Written in March-April 2021.

Take me back.

Take me home.