In some crease of my brain, I imagine my first memory is a frozen image of you smiling
or maybe sitting on a yellow leather couch, curled up, Bible open,
then I skip with the youthful ignorance that still grasps my ankle up to my room
with princess wallpaper; being your daughter meant there was no need
for a Bippity-Boppity Boutique, but you’ve always made a way for us
to have things we don’t need because if personal values were embroidered,
your back would be stitched with the word, “FAMILY.”
You always seem to know how to make everything work.
I used to dream about being a butterfly, and I’m convinced that in some ways,
because of you, I’ve become one.
The unseen and unforeseeable are no boundaries for you,
and perhaps that’s why faith made sense to me even when it didn’t.
High heels in trophy cases because they walked through so much sand,
they made themselves valuable, remarkable,
but with diamonds tied to your fingernails, you still clutch sand in your fist,
telling me, “See what you can make and never forget what you made it with.”
You taught me the most important lesson of poetry.
Anything can be created from anything because those boundaries are not real.
What is real is more than tangible,
what is real on earth was made.
Never forget what you made it with,
or you may never even see it.