I don’t process how I feel.
Instead, I wish for you a girl
with laughing eyes,
who will be impressed by your mobile face
and mediocre dancing.
I imagine skin kissed by summer
and a smile like a sunrise: young and hopeful.
Her arm is strong but gentle on your shoulder,
and when you touch her it feels like gravity:
you’re on solid ground for the first time.
She will never make you feel small,
If she overwhelms you it’ll be the right kind of drowning;
like surfing for the first time.
And when you are lost,
when your cracked heart threatens to become a fault-line,
when your boss calls you incompetent,
or your father is distant,
or your mother is distracted,
she will remind you that
enough (you are so much),
just by being there.
She will break your heart, but in a way that makes it stronger.
When she curls into your arms you will feel like a home.
She will be beautiful.
I know, because I see her.
When I look at you I know her
like an old friend.
It is her hand on your shoulder when I feel you close to crumbling.
It is her voice I hear asking if you are okay.
I am just her messenger.
I do not process how I feel.
Instead, I see you, and I take her hands
and smile. I tell her, “Thank you.
Bring the sun in with you.”
And I hope (I hope) I make you better,
until the day she will love you best.
For D.G.A., from A.A.M.