The Moment I Heard Myself Say It

The cracked pavement holds its steady line,

years worn smooth beneath the rain and shoes.

I caught my voice—sharp as a stone,

correcting my daughter’s careless phrase.

It was the same sharp edge my mother used—

a phrase that once cut like winter glass.

Her words spill out through me unbidden,

a cracked mirror that bends and breaks.

The moment I heard myself say it,

I saw the cracked pavement again,

smooth, familiar, and unyielding.