Things are changing at our home.
Tiny bras now fill the line on wash days
And, when it rains, I find them sturdy plastic hangers,
Then leave them in the bathroom to dry.
My husband sees them as a sign to keep out,
Pretending not to notice the ways she grows.
Taller. Rounder. Moodier.
As I hang the bras of white and pink
And the one with cute frogs,
I tell him of my fears.
Will her heart be broken,
Or, these days, her body?
Don’t worry, he tells me,
She can’t date until she’s married.
I laugh at his joke, but we both know better.
A girl like her - like her momma - will chase
The boys as soon as they look her way.
So I keep saying my maternal mantras,
My worried prayers to the deities in charge of
Good guys, safe sex and curfews obeyed.
Some wait a lifetime for a response to their prayers.
Me, I’ll know the outcome soon.
Much sooner than I’d like.