My monkey has gone home
My daughter, who my girlfriend and I affectionately call Monkey, has been visiting with me for almost the last month. She flew home today, and of course, I am sad, since I won't see her again until her Christmas vacation. So here's a picture of us at the airport:
and here's a poem I wrote about her some years ago that I dusted off and prettied up for a reading in June.
Sonnet for my daughter, age eight.
The high swings, Dad; she said. The short ones
are muddy. Three pushes and she swung alone,
shrugging off help. She bet she could go
higher; I made a face. She snorted her reply
so I bent myself with memory, pulled
chains, stretched legs, climbed heavenward
and we reached a symmetry of swinging motion,
for a moment even gained perfection
of movement, arms and legs and I would
swear heartbeats in agreement with the laws
of astronomy, with the progress
of the afternoon, mud-blotched moon.
I slowed and she giggled aloud. She rose,
surpassing me, going as she chose.