Sugar And Spice (Poetry)

All pride, I used to rather pity them —
relief in bearing such a perfect child
obscured the truth I sense so sharply now —

my girl was normal, healthy, sunny-bright,
theirs mis-shapen. Was it cruel to sigh
my secret thanks, so glad it wasn’t me
who had to try to love that puff-cheeked face?

My daughter was a sweet, unblemished peach
and grew to beauty labelled all her own —
so easy to adore and gifted, too.

Little of it came from me, eclipsed,
I stood at last in shadow — she’d become
a woman in her body, fashion-slim,
a painted face, an image of her age.

I saw them in the town the other day —
a threesome — two adults with their old child.
She’s just the same, still boisterous and loud,
I noticed how she found both parents’ hands
before they crossed the street.

My daughter, reaching seventeen, knew all
she needed to and left us, proved her point
and taught me a harsh lesson. Looking back
I wonder if I drew the shorter straw.