On the precipice of a day
when clouds hugged the peaks of hills
dragging themselves over the tops like proud warriors–
And the sky, blue with memory and tradition
poured over us, bathing us in intimate glory–
She said little as she held my hand and hugged my arm–
And biting into apples fresh with looks of resplendence 
and surprise–
I knew then, as I know now–that this won’t last forever and its preciousness 
is an alarm–and a comfort, etched in deeply held visions like the cattle along the roadside
Or the horses she called “beautiful,” as she turned her head to see them longer.
I was reminded then of the scar that struggles inside me, indignant and proud at once,
A family tradition that I long ago eschewed by choice, but one she has kept–
Just because feelings are unsaid, it doesn’t mean we don’t feel them.