Fourteen years

My daughter brought home another A

in English, and I beamed. Until

she dropped the latest on me.

"Mom, I’m gonna be a writer!"

 

And fourteen years of speculation

and dreaming caught up and slapped me

across my politely smiling face.

"Well, that’s great, honey"

 

Hoping my eyes did not give me away.

 

A soul so sweet, so pure and kind

holding a mind so keen, yet still lacking

that one last crucial spec of inspiration needed

to write the words that need to be written

 

I turn away, hearing the words lived by

since I was her age- but I was never

her age, the age of innocence,

lost in a world of anything can be.

 

Pain is a writer’s world. Pain and beauty.

 

But I was never one to dash a dream,

so as always I hide the true to those

I need most to speak it to, and resolve

to write about it later

 

And fourteen years of seeing such

has bred a pain I’ll never know,

and she tells me through a tear,

"Mom, you’re not the only one"

 

And her pain was beautiful to me.

 

© Copyright 2008, Monica Rae Stover

Reviews

[Anjali]

This is so good! The story you told is amazing. Beautiful! I loved it