Recognition

Recognition Sometimes we borrow things forgetting where we put them. You watch your daughter late at night, when she is in the deepest stages of sleep. She shifts. Turns. Repeats. She wants something to hold on to, like the former prize fighter next door who shadow boxes at every gathering, the effort spent on your high school what is love assignment when a minute was too much, the hug you gave your second father when only a smile was needed, the amount of shampoo poured in your spouse's hair when only a drop was enough. Daughter, soap in the hand, clothed light, it's all the same to you. To the youngest, we are like gods, fully grown, fully human. The colder it gets, the less we see our shadows. The reminder--snow angels with her, and the one snowflake that landed in the middle of your head, where her moth-wing lips kissed at the moment of its falling, the line of demarcation, the separation of all things good and evil in you. Love is recognition, is what you wrote. Recognition. LIke the look your father gave you when you asked for a pen to complete the assignment, like the look your girlfriend gave right before you asked her to marry you, when you breathed frost in her ear, and said her name.