My girl, a woman.
We talk of love and fights,
work and dreams like girlfriends.
She has infinite patience
with the "when you were little" stories
that are now multiplying, their goodness
and simplicity comforting me
like a soft blanket over a sheet of doubts.
I search for myself in her deep-set eyes
so different from mine, nothing that can be seen
is the same, but maybe our souls.
Where am I in the wondrous thing she's become?
Where did she learn to forgive so well,
to delight in so little,
to love so beautiful,
even though I thought I'd shown her
everything I did not want her to see?
Soon she will fly, her hands
will make beautiful things
and she will be more.
There is no beginning or end to a daughter,
in the endless sychronicity of mothers and daughters
each generation is more and
she will be more than me.
A son makes you laugh
because he is a man
as you never imagined.
You hear manly words
and you giggle with delight
in the surprise of it all.
The joy in the aftermath of anger
is an oracle, its message
is the long-awaited tranquility.
Then the cleaning out of your
overflowing trunk of prayers
is like the ending
of your favorite book.
And when you hear that
manly voice say Mom,
it's the only voice you've ever known.