May 18, 2007
Stepdaughter; after a fashion. Reading your poetry; realising you are realising a talent I once mistakenly fancied I had, and I am not envious. We share no genes, yet I am proud. Not of you, but for you. Young you: tonight flushed and unbalanced by frustration at the unfairness of the world; at the bitter necessity of the unnecessary. I remember. I see the memory in the flash of your unassuageable eyes: why are you old people no longer outraged? Unable to tell you how it is. Knowing you will know one day. Write it down, girl. Write it down.