If you have to leave your daughter
in her adopted town
2000 miles or more from the city
where you live, and this means
a flight with a Denver stop-over,
 
book it for early or mid-afternoon
so that breakfast is at leisure
in a sun-striped dining room
where a sprig of cherry blossoms
frame a window that shows
a road stretching to the mountains.
In your bowls are strawberries
 
while her hoop earrings swing
with a shine that echoes
the glint in her eyes.
She wears brand-new jeans,
hiking shoes for scuffy trails,
a sweater blue as sky,
and is planning a walk, upon
your departure, down the hill
to get papayas for lunch.
And if you depart
while the day is still young
 
it will make it easier than leaving
cloaked by the night
when you stare down from the plane
at the lights’ spreading glitter
and she but a single one
somewhere amongst them all


This poem first appeared in Mothers Always Write.
Used here with permission.