I never dreamed my daughter would be 16
until the day arrived with a car full of kids
and balloons, take-out Mexican food
and a Baskin Robbins ice cream cake.
A few months later and she has a boyfriend
in a baseball cap and baggy pants, two gold hoop
earrings and a shaved head. They are happy.
After school they do their homework together,
stretched out on her bed, the door open
to the edge of the legal limit.
Every history question finished deserves
a kiss. They’re embarrassed by the names
they’ve invented for each other,
by their tenderness. Toward evening
they watch MTV, mute the volume
during the commercials and plan their future —
junior college, then marriage, then kids,
what they’ll take with them — his dog,
her rat. I’m happy for them, even knowing
what will happen — the last gift, the last
kiss, her huddled on her bed, blinded
by her own bright pain. And I can see clearly
the day she’ll walk away, keys on a ring,
a suitcase banging her legs.
Then the real work of motherhood will begin,
the job of waking into each morning, trusting.
