by Greta Bolger

Daughter comes home unexpected, slim aproned hips
flexed toward waiting tomorrow’s tables, learning whites

from reds, names of liquors and how to upsell unsuspecting
diners, asking them sweetly, “Fresh-baked cookies?”

She has not inherited my heat-seeking need for answers.
Her position is simple. Today is what we have, no more.

Her un-judgment releases us: her parents, herself, her twin:
innocent until proven. Tonight, she wants white cupcakes with

sprinkles; tomorrow, a visit to a happy baby boy. She listens
to my ancient fears, offers airy comfort, but my nightmares

are vague subtext to a text message that spells vivid something
parting the dark hair of night. She rushes out to comb it.

I stir the mottled pot of worry, peer for headlights through the
trees. In my darkest moments, her featherweight heart carries her

too far, beyond the reach of gravity, while mine, heavy as an engine
block, runs day and night, swelling to crush me from the inside out.

 

 

With twin 23-year olds living at home, Greta Bolger has accepted child-rearing as a life-long pursuit. An entrepreneur and so-far survivor of the global economic meltdown, she has learned to take everything in stride, fortified by liberal doses of chardonnay and compassion.