Wednesday, November 16, 2011

worn driftwood.


Everybody in my family has different scars. 
My daddy’s scars are scattered. 
And me, mine is over looked. It sits in the corner of my cheek, faded by time. 
Alex’s scars are many, some new. Obvious, yet he doesn’t try and hide them.
But my mom’s scar, my mom’s scar, like a small scratch on glass, 
like a tear in the hemline all delicate because she was only playing, 
almost impossible to see unless she shows it to you, 
sitting on her lap you feel safe, is the worn piece of driftwood on the damp sand, 
is the feel when she makes room for you on the narrow couch still warm from her skin, and you sit near her, the fog outside lingering and daddy still snoring. 
The snoring, the fog, and mommy’s scar that’s like worn driftwood.

okay, so i got the 'proud mama thing going on' these days. 
another beautiful poem written by my daughter.