At river’s edge she watched them cavort like young pups, but they were nearly men, were actually men if she was honest about it, grown faster than the eye could see, soon off to other parts of the world. It was sweet to her eyes and ears. They had seen hard times. Motherless, then fatherless, but she had held them close and let them roam as needed. Or, she tried to do right. One never knew for sure. Things could end up far differently that she imagined. They might forget her, not her face, some of the better times, but forget HER, who she was and remained: grandmother but still a person with her own peculiarities, ideas. Mostly, love that knew no end. It was what she could do best she had decided when they had been left with her. But life had a way of blurring itself with each new experience.
Today, though, today. The river was brilliant. Green, full of living things. Gentled for once. The boys submerged themselves and then torpedoed out the surface, pushing and laughing. Making a scene for the nonchalant girls on the other side of the bushes. She smiled, swatted a bee away. If she sat here long enough she could see her whole life unfold, see her late husband float past on his homemade raft, his hand extended. She had been sixteen, reckless enough to take a chance and climb up and ride downriver with him. Good thing.
In time the boys would stumble onto the bank and sprawl out around her and this, too, would lodge itself in her mind for a cold winter night or a simmering summer day when she packed a sandwich and her folding chair and sat and wondered over very bit of it.
Patricia Ann McNair 
http://judithlindenau.wordpress.com/2013/06/27/june-27-2013-at-the-river/
At river’s edge she watched them cavort like young pups, but they were nearly men, were actually men if she was honest about it, grown faster than the eye could see, soon off to other parts of the world. It was sweet to her eyes and ears. They had seen hard times. Motherless, then fatherless, but she had held them close and let them roam as needed. Or, she tried to do right. One never knew for sure. Things could end up far differently that she imagined. They might forget her, not her face, some of the better times, but forget HER, who she was and remained: grandmother but still a person with her own peculiarities, ideas. Mostly, love that knew no end. It was what she could do best she had decided when they had been left with her. But life had a way of blurring itself with each new experience.
Today, though, today. The river was brilliant. Green, full of living things. Gentled for once. The boys submerged themselves and then torpedoed out the surface, pushing and laughing. Making a scene for the nonchalant girls on the other side of the bushes. She smiled, swatted a bee away. If she sat here long enough she could see her whole life unfold, see her late husband float past on his homemade raft, his hand extended. She had been sixteen, reckless enough to take a chance and climb up and ride downriver with him. Good thing.
In time the boys would stumble onto the bank and sprawl out around her and this, too, would lodge itself in her mind for a cold winter night or a simmering summer day when she packed a sandwich and her folding chair and sat and wondered over very bit of it.
A nice evocation of the feeling of being old.