eleven
she’s no longer a child
but no more than a child
yet
still plays Narnia
and builds mansions
of Lincoln Logs and blocks
her eyes glow with tears
when I confirm her cautious suspicions
about Santa
she remembers
wearing the same clothes to school
all week—
easier to find every morning
on the floor,
before discovering
gauchos and shrugs,
deodorant, acne cream
her friends now talk
of boys and radio stations
she senses
her self
stretching, reaching
transforming
there is much
we don’t know yet
I see her
pushing up, out
soft clay
forming itself
sometimes
the wavering form
becomes translucent, revealing
a hesitating glimmer
as when she cries and
holds her sister
because the rounder cheeks
dripped with tears first
or when she remembers
in the quiet before sleep
Whose child she is,
tells me she’s amazed
she is herself
not someone else
that she’s been so forever
beginning
but not new
we won’t see yet
all she is
In her previous life, Cheri finished BYU’s music undergrad and English master’s programs. Now she keeps busy with four kids, two in junior high and two younger ones who homeschool. Like their mom, they tune out everything the minute they open a book. A native of Oregon, Cheri has a deep need for trees. She’s also a sucker for good movies and gourmet food. She lives with her family plus three cats in Pleasant Grove, Utah. Cheri is a member of Segullah’s editorial board.
