My daughters live far away for now, 

though I suspect it may be for longer

until they visit, spinning into our lives

like butterflies and fresh jasmine, 

like the memory of cake batter 

licked off fingers and the bowl. 

Was I ever more like them than like me,

shoulders undefeated, breathing warmth  

into days that send a sudden chill in old bones

dragging me into their laughter, aloft,

like the kites we flew, the many days

spent with multi-layered dreams in play?

My daughters have left their marks  

in everything they touch, the house

resonates with their fingers, hands

embracing the deepest dawns, do they know

sometimes the hardest thing anyone can do

is to just keep going? To get up each day

to an emptiness and pretend it’s not there. 

No, they are not grieving, they are busy

living their lives and I really wouldn’t

have it any other way. I feel the nostalgia,

the desire for something I’m missing, voices

carrying into the darkness, calling me back. 

They do whatever calls to them, it does not matter:

decimate a politician, win an award, learn the songs

of dolphins dancing, flail or bend their knees 

and march to tunes that only they can hear,

while all around them, the world crumbles

or grows stronger; let my girls run riot there. 

Meanwhile, I am becoming irreconcilable

to everyone except myself, and it does not matter:

Before it is time to resemble no one and be nothing

I had the mixed fortune to resemble most things.

My shadows linger in the corners, the top of the stairs

I know I may not have lived my potential. Still,

 
I participated in the world. I wore the ceremonial

saris and jewels required by protocol, led my children

into pools and beaches and taught them to love;

all these unique personalities clinging to my hands

as though every word I spoke was Gospel truth.

We took turns sucking the marrow out of life. 

And for me, that is enough.