My daughter’s child, climbing on the armchair,
balancing and flipping, then settling down
to read Blueberries For Sal, unaware
of the echoes from the past. Her nightgown
appears by the bed, “Mom, I’m scared,” she’d gloom
and climb under the covers. My patience
ebbing, I’d send her back to her dark room –
but she understands, gives reassurance.
Snuggling in close, she wipes the tears that come
as she listens to the child’s tender heart,
and I listen to hers, stunned by wisdom
found in my child’s thoughtful mothering part –
echoing my good, learning from my bad.
Generations surpassing what they had.
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