I think, she thinks,
I think these are the best years of my life.
A fair few kids,
a tiny house,
a well-loved husband’s wife.
And tho she traipse’ from swimming lessons,
to Beavers then to school
laden down with bags and books,
jackets, mittens, boots.
And even when she drops them off and feels a guilty pang,
Or when she shouts, or kicks them out,
the door slammed with a bang.
When she cooks the millionth meal to noses turned upright
she thinks, she thinks,
this might just be,
the best years of my life.
She thinks, how can it be
that it won’t always be like this?
That one day I’ll sit upon a bench,
do nothing but exist?
No bums to wipe, no tears to dry,
no whining and no fuss:
Only won’dring if there’ll be a seat on the number seven bus.
I think, she thinks, I think I’m right.
Life’s memories are now.
To stop, to see, to memorise,
as slow as life allows.
For one day soon,
far sooner than it seems quite possible,
the life she’s living now, she thinks,
will be a mem’ry full.