Poem for an Inked Daughter

By Jean Wyrick

I did it too you know, just differently.
Way back thenwhen I was angry and youngI pierced my ears with a rusty ice pick,
and willfully wore dangly earrings(and a smirk) to Christmas dinner.
My scandalized mother referred to me for days as“my daughter, the dirty gypsy.”
I let my ears jingle silver music,
ultimately dancing right over her Victorian disapproval
out of that house forever.

And now here you are,
fresh from a different kind of parlor,
with that defiant dragoncurling dark over your shoulder.
No, of course you know I don’t like it.
Another gauntlet thrown downin the ongoing Mother-Daughter Wars.

But hear this, my own gypsy girl:
I know something you don’t.
That under that fierce fire-breathing dragon,claws bared, ready for the next battle,
under the skin where the purple ink turns to blood,
your blood is my blood,
rushing red to red,
flowing in a long bond
linking my heart to you no matter what,
like the swirling, twisting lines of an intricate intimate tattoo,
invisible, indelible, forever
permanent.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Faron sent me a copy of this poem, and I love it. Each generation of mother/daughter pairs, has a struggle for independance vs control, freedom vs boundaries, fly by the seat of her pants vs caution.
The poem is a powerful reminder that as we struggle against eachother, we are, in essence, eachother. How often I need to remind myself of this as I parent my Jaala. My head strong, "gonna take you on", powerfully minded, visionary, free spirited daughter. As she rages against my influence and boundaries, I remember being her, wondering why the heck people insisted I do things their way, when my way worked perfectly well??!!
How precious that mind is to me no matter how much we struggle together to find our way, I am proud of who she is.