On my first day alone in this country,
it was you who cried
my tears came later, when it sank in
that my self-imposed separation
was permanent.

I missed you too much
to comment on the criticism.
Five minutes out of the airport:
hug, kiss, and “Why is your coat
dragging along the floor?”

Back then it was playful threats
of charm school, and nicknaming
me “Grace.”
Then I turned 13. Things changed;
I know they do for everyone.

Shouting, on both sides, and tears.
The criticism started to gouge
holes in me, and I told you so.
You said I was hurtful. Alone
in my room, I cried.

Not out of sadness. Because
You were right, and I
had been wrong.
But, like most things,
it was too hard to admit.

I whined to my friends
and you bought a book on
How to deal with your angry
teenaged daughter.
I wondered why I bothered
missing you, because seeing you
was so hard.

But I did miss you.
Just like I had
nine years old and scared
in a big building filled
with children who disliked me.

Time changes everything
even the fractious relationship
between a mother and daughter.
I've started to lean on you again.

Sometimes you call
even though there's nothing to say.
There are fewer angry phone bills.
Fewer fights. We live a cautious dance
between too many open doors
and too few.

Six months ago,
I found something that
made me smile. That book
you bought? You never even
cracked the spine.