Growing Up
“I hate celery”, you’ve been known to declare.
“No, not hate. Hate is too strong a word.”
I taught you that, you know,
not to hate, not to hit or bite or pull hair.
My words shaped your semi-conscious
just like our hands now shape birds,
horses, fruit, out of modeling clay.
How I long for those days you played dress up,
carting dolls around like your own children
or cleaning house with brooms and dustpans.
Now you answer the phone when I call,
telling me in almost-perfect English
about the Tonka truck you want for Christmas.
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