Getting Ready
My daughter asks which swimsuit-
the turquoise or black, and holds up
both, each still on its plastic hanger.
I say turquoise. I like the palm trees.
And then she disappears, off to find
in the various odd piles of her room
the matching flip-flops and sunglasses,
the exact right bag and hat and towel
and book, and when did she become
so put together, so able to navigate
the arcane processes and rules of being
a female in this world? And when
did it stop being my place to chase
down all of the components and pieces,
to ensure my daughter has everything
I can even imagine that she needs-
a burden I can still remember cursing.
At least she let me pick the color.
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