Only a little, though. I still remember the thrill of accomplishment I felt the first time my husband and I said, "You kids feed yourselves, we're going out to dinner".
For my daughter:
To a Daughter Leaving Home
When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels,
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye.
Linda Pastan
For my son:
Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road?
Don't fill up on bread
I say absent-mindedly
The servings here are huge
My son, whose hair may be
receding a bit, says
Did you really just
say that to me?
What he doesn't know
is that when we're walking
together, when we get
to the curb
I sometimes start to reach
for his hand
Robert Hershon
And no, my son's hair is not receding. It's just a poem.
