At six the kid loved the long lines, the swirling puddles, the intersection
of dried color and what she dubbed, “its barking and
At sixteen she could not be bothered
to accompany her old man to the museum
where “everything is so dusty and boring.”
By twenty-six she’d humor me
once a year, and complain about
the lack of narrative and the bourgeoisness and the patriarchy.
By thirty-six she loved his risk, and our memories, the wonder of her own child
and of my failing body, as we crawled
inside the painting.
At forty-six I hope
she cried, though with a hint of a her smile. I hope
she’s missed me and my commentary.
And that she kept going.