My Turn

As I stroll through the park,
mindlessly,
I see a child swing his backpack,
hopping toward the swings, light and free.
Behind him, his mother follows,
matching his eager steps.
He suddenly stops,
his gaze fixed—
not on the boy soaring high,
feet kicking the sky in joy,
but on the father behind him,
hands steady, laughter echoing,
as a mother captures the moment,
a keepsake of love.
His mother urges him to wait,
but I know that look too well.
A wince tugs at my heart—
for once,
I was the child who was urged to wait.