Friday, January 27, 2017

through the eyes of a mother


It happens a lot.  Little Giants catching reflections of themselves in the glass of the coach's office.  The littlest of them almost always smile.  The older girls seem more curious and less sure.  As if they don't quite recognize themselves.


The moment is short. Sometimes so fleeting they don't even realize they are doing it.


Each gaze, smirk, & smile is as unique as their are.
But there is one look they all share: the daughter look. 

Beneath the rips and the bruises.
Under the mat burns and layers of tape.
Below the dust of white chalk they are our daughters.


And when they get sick the daughter look is the only one they wear.

It is instantly recognizable. 
The look that says I am here standing at the gym's front desk not as an athlete but as a child who wants to call their mom and be taken home.



Wednesday at 7:14 PM I looked up from the desk.  The phone pinned between my ear and my shoulder.  Standing before me the ashen face of a child.  She was wearing a coat but the straps of her leotard could still be seen. Her mouth flat and tight; leaving her eyes to do the frowning.


This daughter standing there was mine.
Then again they all are- at least until their own mothers show up
and take them home.
 

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