Daughter
She will open our door in the morning
when the clock chimes the nineth hour
and a taxi will wait at the end-path,
the beginning of her drift away.
She will kiss my cheek at eight o’clock,
hug me as I make toast and tea,
squeeze fresh orange and tease our dog,
tell me things I’ll misunderstand.
She will tell me how she’ll miss us all
as she carries her case out the doorway
and walks her lifeline to the car,
following her own heart as she must.
She will wave as my morning caves in
and I will force a smile and wave back.
I will close the door and stand quite still,
and then will begin my great unravelling.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, February 2, 2021
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