my mother's words have turned cartwheels in my mind all afternoon

My mother uttered, gazing into the mirror, and unaware of my presence, "I want to be young again."

a handprint in the sand does not last. it is washed away by the stealthy tide.
a wet handprint on molten rock soon dries in the jealous sun.
the concrete imprint of my hand in my driveway waits in front of my home. But soon I will no longer see it. and it will no longer be my home. perhaps, then it will cease to exist as well. as it will be a memory, like the sandy print and the wet one, and what did any of them ever matter. it was only ever a reminder. of a moment i don't remember. of a time that's made me but is no longer who i am.