“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”
This is a poem to Lisa, my daughter, baby girl born so perfectly 19 years ago. Colicky shrieking in the night, so much that I wept with you, and you clung to me forever, it seemed. But I didn't mind, carrying you everywhere so you wouldn't run off under the clothes racks at JCPenney's, scattering shirts across worn carpet. You didn't fit Dr. Spock's mold; I tried to make you acquiesce to what-is-right-and-proper. Still, you did things your own way-- yellow Crayola pictures, re-choreographing the kindergarten ballet. And I allowed you to become yourself: vegetarian, artist, green lipstick. But I couldn't protect you at age 14, so I blamed myself for your pubescent agonies, until I saw the immutable strength within you, wisdom beyond your tears, because you grew free-- as all children must-- always with deathless love bonding my heart to yours eternally, baby girl, all grown up, my Lisa, my daughter. --8/27/98