Hurry

by Marie Howe

We stop at the dry cleaners and the grocery store    

and the gas station and the green market and    

Hurry up honey, I say, hurry,    

as she runs along two or three steps behind me    

her blue jacket unzipped and her socks rolled down.   

Where do I want her to hurry to? To her grave?    

To mine? Where one day she might stand all grown?    

Today, when all the errands are finally done, I say to her,    

Honey I’m sorry I keep saying Hurry—    

you walk ahead of me. You be the mother.   

And, Hurry up, she says, over her shoulder, looking    

back at me, laughing. Hurry up now darling, she says,    

hurry, hurry, taking the house keys from my hands.