Family Matters

Dear Mom,

do you remember when

i would take out your pink, back-up wheelchair

and race you?

down the wooden walkway

by the hiking trail

around the cul-de-sac,

i always wanted to be the fastest and

the strongest and

rush way ahead of you

but my arms were too short to spin the wheels.

My mantra was “big enough, old enough, grown enough” for independence.

do you remember when

you fell our in the garden and

no one else was home but me?

it was summer and

you got too hot

too weak

to stand back up and come inside.

i had to drag you, limp,

across the rough ground and

up a cement step and

i was weak too,

thin and scrawny with mousy brown hair

and no muscle whatsoever.

i scraped your back and it was

bleeding, dirtied, white, brown, and red.

i couldn’t keep you safe but

you thanked me

                    i didn’t understand why

if i were grown, i would have been strong enough,

mature enough,

to keep away all the bad.

now, i’m there

the big one-eight.

Mom, i can outrun you,

pick you up,

drive you to PT and MRIs,

teach you how to squat with proper form and set up Skype calls.

i’ve gained a lot, learned a lot, built my character.

Mom, i’m moving out,

i’m going to college

i’m leaving -

                  you.

                  i’m scared.

i’m grown up, but

i want to be small,

i want to go back to

being ten and

pushing you down the aisles of Target too fast for your liking and

laughing without being self conscious and

standing on my tippie toes in your old

size two

point shoes and

 not being afraid of asking for hugs.

Mom, how do i do it?

Your Daughter,

                       Danielle

p.s. I love you