These words today reflect a memory of when I was four and struck by a car. I was crossing the blacktop road that sat in front of our small Iowa farmhouse. My mother, who was only 15 when she married, was on the other side, gazing down the road as my father steered his tractor to a nearby pasture for spring plowing.
![]() |
Me at age 4 in Cairo, Iowa |
When I Reached for Your Hand
I should have known
you could not be there
when I reached
for your hand
you had already left
freeing yourself
of me
dreaming of another place
and time
I wonder
did you ache
for what you left behind
or yearn for what
may never come
when I reached for your hand
and it was gone
left alone
I was not afraid
to cross over
to you
on that bright warm
early spring day
with the damp dark earth
beckoning to be split open
from the cold metal
that would carve through
its soft underbelly
not afraid
to reach for you
to call to you
but you would not hear
my cry
you had already left
and went away
to another place
that I was not allowed
to follow
you with your lost
innocence and wonder
and dreams
never to be realized
unaware
of what was left behind
me
who was reaching out
for you to take my hand
me
who was taking
that step
closer
to you
to bring you back
from that place that
stole you
and
left me behind
I reached for your hand
but it was gone
I was unafraid
to cross over
to you
and my life was
forever changed.
missing the mom gene