The Olympic Poems (3)
She came in late, having been out to
dinner with a friend. She is soaking up
these final days before leaving for college.
Her mother and I were in bed watching
five tiny girls and their quest for gold.
Her mother had already surrendered to dreams,
so she asked if she could watch with me.
Only a fool father would deny such a request.
So she sprawled across the bed’s foot while
I tucked my knees to make room, my
motions the olympic event of fathering,
allowing her to grow beyond my reach.
As she focused on those tiny five girls, I was
spellbound at the blossoming young woman
at my feet I used to carry in the crook of my arm.
How does time fly so high, so fast? Practice, I guess.
The breathless commentator finally said
“Right now every little girl wants to be one of the final five.”
In that golden moment’s wake I could have
crumbled, but I kept good form. Practice, I guess.
She stood tall, told me good-night-I-love-you,
and we then joined her mother in dreams.
Ah the irony of loving and giving unconditionally to our kids knowing the full measure of our investment results in their departure from the home. We are proud and look hopeful to their future for what may be, but at the cusp of the transition between now and then, a change occurs and we cannot go back. We can only hope for fair winds and following seas.
[…] The Olympic Poems by John Blase […]