My daughter says
. my hair’s too long;
. it drags my formerly too round face
. down.
My daughter says
. my car’s too girlish;
. pastel seats and butterflies
. are frivolous.
My daughter says
. my voice is too strident;
. her ears are are hurt
. by their happy cadence.
To my daughter I say
. life’s too short to be
. a fuddy-duddy*
. before you’re thirty.
.
.
*fuddy-duddy: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fuddy-duddy
Grade eight.
Horror.
Mother is her substitute teacher today.
“Do not
acknowledge
that you know me!” she hissed.
But when her name was called for
attendance, and teacher-mother
looked around for
whichever student would raise her hand,
she glowered,
unhappy
with anonymity.
I grew up
a pampered princess
a late life arrival, long desired.
I felt my father’s
fondness every day-
a travelling salesman
who never missed a moment
of my active life.
But you
lost your father
along the way, lost sight
of him over the barriers
your mother built between you.
What was it like to find him
as he was dying, knowing
he had never stopped
loving you, though you
were equally lost to him?
Once you found him,
he slipped into eternity.
As I watch you, so
polished at your work,
on this career high,
I wonder,
Are you still a lost boy?
Or did the chance to embrace him
at the end of his life,
to know how proud he was of you,
help ease the sorrow
as you set him free to fly?
I forgive you
for not meeting me for tea
And I wonder,
what kind of father
will you let yourself be?
.
.
(For S&D)
