See the old lady
sitting alone at her table,
an empty sketchpad before her.
She gently folds her hands
and closes her eyes briefly.
Perhaps she's waiting for inspiration,
or merely praying that her arthritic hands
will do what she wants this time.
She picks up a stubby pencil
in her gnarled hands
and begins to draw.
It almost seems as if she's sketching randomly,
a line here, a curve there,
nothing connected.
Although her hand shakes
and her brow furrows
the pencil never stops
its slow travel around the page.
Slowly an image takes place,
a face.
At first glance, it's not a pleasant face,
cold eyes and an tight mouth,
drawn with short, sharp lines.
The woman signs the picture at the bottom,
and writes two words at the top,
"My Daughter".
With a sigh she sets down the pencil,
rubs her hands to ease the stiffness.
She looks down at what she's drawn and smiles.
Now the face doesn't seem so harsh,
there are traces of warmth in the eyes.
Faint traces of a smile
at the corners of the mouth,
and in the artist's face,
more than a trace of love.
As she stands, the phone rings,
she answers to hear her daughter's voice.
"Mom, I was just thinking of you."
Sometimes traces can run deep.