She's texting in the seat beside me, frenziedfourteen-year old fingers telling someone at
the other end that Nana doesn't understand.
Laugh or cry seem two appropriate responses
but instead I whisper, "That's a lie" which sends
her to the rest room to resume important
conversation with some privacy. Later, I explain
that I am pretty smart. If there's something I
don't understand, the fault is not my own, but
fact that someone hasn't given all the details,
apprised me of the whens and whos and hows,
using words I know she doesn't understand and
feeling just a little smug about it when the dam
begins to burst, hot tears fall and blur the makeup
I would just as soon she didn't wear at all, the pressure
she lets build inside explodes into a fourteen-year-old's
voice and then subsides. Exchange of quieter
expressions of concern and love, reminder that
I'm not the enemy and as I drop her at a friend's and
drive away, it hits me that she isn't, either.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
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