Satellite

When you were small, I observed to my mother that my reflexes were faster, better trained, clumsy/awkward girl that I was before you. You see, I spend my motherhood trying desperately to catch you - an outstretched arm, a wild grab. Don't trip, don't fall, don't run away, don't grow up. But you don't wait for permission, and you don't slow down to allow me to catch up.  I've never been ready for the being that is you (although how could I ever have been prepared), your energy, your love, your life have always caught me by surprise. It was not an option, I couldn't fail, I couldn't ever be less than you needed, and yet, I cannot ever succeed in being what you deserve, this endless parent-sized paradox in which we find ourselves. Thus, you dragged me along out of my childhood, and into yours, you old soul, you wise babe. And now, you have my long legs, and my passionate arguments, and my bleeding heart, and you run farther out of reach, with your height scratched ever higher on the door post, with your long legs, your likes and dislikes that are no longer reflections of mine. I struggle to keep up, but you'll always outrace me, a small, fierce sun just over the horizon, but lighting the path back into grace.