Fly

(all the ways we let go)

A mother stands on a sidewalk
one palm pressed to her chest
the other, a shade over her brow
blocking the late summer sun

She scrunches her face
to see that her daughter arrives safely
wherever she’s running to
pony tail and independence flapping in the wind

The little girl must be nine
with a stick in one hand, like when she was three
her feet are wings, stretching the space
between city blocks—her childhood

The mother lowers her shade
warm light fills her eyes, steeped in nostalgia
with a quick wave and a short smile
she turns away from her daughter

and lets her fly