Thursday, July 28, 2011

B

If I should have a daughter, instead of Mom, she's gonna call me point B.

Because that way she knows, that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me.
And I’m gonna paint the solar system on the back of her hands,
so she has to learn the entire universe
before she can say "Oh, I know that like the back of my hand."

She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face,
wait for you to get back up
just so it can kick you in the stomach.

But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.
There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry,
so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself.

Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.

...

I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind. Because that’s the way my mom taught me.

That there’ll be days like this,
"There’ll be days like this my momma said..."
when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises.
When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly
and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape.
When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment
and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say "thank you",

cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline,

no matter how many times it's sent away.

You will put the wind in win some, lose some.
You will put the star in starting over, and over,
and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.

And yes, on a scale from one to overtrusting, I am pretty damn naive, but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar.
It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it

Baby, I'll tell her, remember your mama is a worrier, and your papa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.

Remember that good things come in threes, and so do bad things. And always apologize when you've done something wrong,

but don't you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.

Your voice is small, but don't ever stop singing.

And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door, and offer you handouts on street corners of cynicism and defeat,

you tell them that they really oughta meet your mother.

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