Angela Allen

Two cranes, a couple, walking through a field at sunset

When we grow old together
we tell each other the same stories
one hundred times over, and eyes roll.
We forgive our parents, mostly.
We moon over our grown children
and celebrate that they’re adults.
We ruffle feathers over failings,
fill in fissures for one another,
read books the other hates.
We clean one another’s plates,
plaster on praise, lose patience,
make more plans, chortle
at stale jokes, honk at the better ones
like cranes keeping the family intact.
We touch each others’ hands,
and that is usually enough.