The thing about your child, is that you’ve known her for her whole life. We say that about friends: “I’ve known her my whole life” but this is literally true. You’ve known your child her whole life, and then some. I always think, when she comes, that we won’t have anything to talk about, or we’ll talk superficially, like you do with some friends, about what’s been going on with her life, and then before you know it an hour’s gone by or two and the two of you have barely stopped talking to take a breath, and the pancakes, which you were only going to eat 3 and then freeze the rest, are gone.
She came for pancakes
Then talked the morning away
So windy outside
It’s a strange thing to have a “child” who is 30. You remember her vividly at 3, or 10, or 15, and here she is a woman, talking to you about sex and grad school and carpentry and the shoes on your basement floor, and raiding your garden for peppers and tomatoes, and your larder for the homemade jalapeno jam. She doesn’t see you looking at her and wondering who this stranger is that you know so well.
No need to clear up
The mess reminds me of you
When you’ve left
Dropping in to OctPoMoWriMo a couple days late