She lifts her left foot slowly, moving forward
Steadily, if only by six inches. This
Is how she gets to Foodland every Thursday,
Senior discount day.
She is as tiny as the gray weeds growing
Along the curb. I fear even a light wind
Will nudge her off balance, yet her steps are sure,
Her eyes fixed ahead.
Her thin white hair is tied in a same kerchief
As she has worn on this trek for fifty-six
Years, ever since her now late husband refused
Her driving lessons.
“It is not that far” she tells herself, walking
Down Luluku Road, mask on and bag handy.
I once offered her a ride, but she shook her
Head, with a vague Chinese
Accent, “No. I like walk dis way. I stay safe.”
As I return from her same destination,
I see her still waiting to cross Kam highway
Wondering if the light
Will give her enough time to cross. It does not,
But drivers wait. No horns. No yells. Her head down
She progresses. She progresses, enduring
As all of us have.