Poetry
On Mothering a Teenager. . .
This morning I found Mary in the kitchen
puttering around making breakfast
the moon was on the counter
and her crown she had hung from the doorknob
You’re up early I said
She just gave me her best Mona Lisa
and turned back to the stove
Later, after all the routines were completed
we sat at the table
two mothers sharing sorrow
over cups of tea
we swapped stories
and she held my hand
Whatever roads I’ve travelled
she was always there first
My only, intelligent, strong willed daughter is 14: Behold! The motivation for this poem (coupled with a lifetime of Catholicism). Thank you for reading!
