Details

This week, we listened to your daughter
read a story.
From our seats inside the thin walls
of the high school auditorium,
we held our breath as she
arranged her paper and
brought the podium microphone
to her lips.
From the corner of my eye,
I watched you
watching her.
Your daughter is an exceptional writer.
She notices details that are easy to miss.
I could imagine her writing about
the way your toes point out
when you walk
or the way you lift your chin
when you're trying to swallow a thought.
She is bold like you,
and with every delicately crafted
sentence she recites,
my heart swells
until it is so big it pushes tears from my eyes.
I imagine what it is like for you
to hear her.

Your youngest, sitting beside you,
bends forward to rest her head
on your lap, and you stroke her back
gently with your hand.
Your thin argyle sweater is tight
around your arm, and a thin silver bracelet
engraved with each of your daughters' names
hugs your wrist.

I couldn't help but consider that
three hours earlier,
those same arms were rubbing my back
while your bare legs straddled my hips.
Three turns of the clock
were all that separated those hands
from my waste,
those lips from my neck.
Fewer than three thousand breaths
fell between my primal cries
and your daughter's
courageous narrative.

I shivered and lifted my chin,
trying to swallow.
Love has many flavors,
and that day I tasted them all.