by Focus
© 2000 Focus, all rights reserved
Deep blue eyes low in a round fat face
Beneath the faintest of eyebrows
Look to me for all -
And I wonder, can I do this? Can I mother this child?
I comb short dark hair to a peak
Atop her soft skull.
Holding her head, for her neck is still weak,
I dress her and feed her and rock her to sleep.
And she never doubts me.
My infant, my babe.
At four, full of mischief and joy,
She is learning to read.
A trip to the grocery is an educational field trip.
"Pepsi Cola!" she calls out as delivery truck passes.
"Safeway!" she reads for another.
The produce section is a vocabulary lesson:
Broccoli, Cabbage, Brussel Sprouts, Squash.
She rides in the cart, and I
Make car noises as we cruise the aisles.
She turns to me for answers,
My preschooler, my child.
At seventeen, a young woman, studious and in
love,
With long chestnut hair and eyes flashing green.
She acts in plays, edits newspapers, and writes.
She drives my car, dropping me off at work
And picking me up after.
She sees my flaws now, and knows that she will do better.
She turns to her friends for understanding.
She turns to her beau for love.
She turns to me for money,
My daughter, my teen.