Not some young thing

My mom told me that

my dad chose my name,

in the same conversation

that I realized her 20th wedding anniversary

to my step father is next month.

She noted a tattoo on my hand

while sitting in the passenger seat,

as she asked me,

is that temporary or permanent?

newly permanent I replied,

and I pointed out it’s origin.

my name means beloved,

I reminded her,

and she referenced my dad.

that must be why he liked it,

she loudly whispers,

smiling with her eyes

looking out the windshield.

I listen and I join her in looking

past the windshield at

the spinning tires below me,

hearing bickering

coming from the backseat.

I pull out while listening to tv.

I play back the earlier line

directed at someone younger,

hearing both made me

place myself in each conversation

as the younger and older characters.

two voices debating their wisdom,

identified with their pasts,

self distancing from their true feelings.

still able to pull out ripples of advice

directed specifically at them.

gratefully irritated,

annoyingly serene.

not as old as their total experience,

and somehow wiser than

their collective years.

--

--

--

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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Amanda Lindamood

Amanda Lindamood

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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