it was an oatmeal morning
a little overcast and perfect for messes
and who, after all, needs blue skies
when my daughter’s eyes are in the room.

so she sat, and I sat
and communicated without words
as she ate her oatmeal,
smeared it on her chubby little hands
and it dribbled down her chin

where did my baby go? I thought
as she reached for the spoon
and grabbed it. but then I realized,

I was that baby not that long ago;
I once had oatmeal dried and crusted
in the crevices of my fingers
and my mother asked this question
about her daughter, and some day
so will mine.







2 thoughts on “Oatmeal

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