she buses the tables, pertly beautiful clad in black, black hair tied in a knot on top.

i see she’s the age of my daughters, i see it in the side of her face as she goes by.

i think i know something about her, about her life, she’s young—starting a new life.

like my daughters recently moved to far-flung corners of the continent, starting new lives.

how exciting it all was when i was that age! (i was already a father; everything was new and the world large).

this young woman bustles gracefully in silence, eyes demurely downcast, but i believe this about her.

like my girls who have waited tables, this waitressing job might be a fleeting moment among new adventures.

what a wild world it was, when i was that age! this one is that young, so beautifully alert.

valley boulevard, traffic, shining in the sun on the other side of the windows.

of course i know nothing of the waitress or her life; she clears a table and carries dishes into the kitchen.

"mama" by Anya

“mama” by Anya