Linda Pastan
(1932-2023)
To a Daughter Leaving Home
When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels,
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye.
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There are certain poems which set you up for a powerful last line or two. This is one of them. The set-up perfectly shapes the worry for her young daughter like a potters hands at the wheel.
Then, "the hair flapping behind you like a handkerchief waving goodbye."
Poems like these are not hard to understand but it is wise to just sit with the emotions which come from those last lines.
Give yourself a few minutes to plumb your reactions.
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