The Golden Daughter

It has come to my attention that

no matter how sincerely I wish

or deeply I regret,

I consistently fail to embody the image of

that golden daughter

who haunts my steps.

The one - like me - who rises to the occasion,

takes the lead,

guides the family through difficult times.

In my minds eye, I see her

capably handling every challenge,

enveloping all in her presence

with that calm aura of grace

I can never seem to summon.

She is gently encouraging to her ailing, confused father …

never allowing the singeing hurt

of being unseen

to harden her heart

as he calls her mother/sister/wife

or, on the bad days, pushes her away as

an uninvited stranger.

She is disarmingly patient with her querulous mother …

never rolling her eyes or assuming

a stance of stoic resignation

as the bitter complaints and

demands of a strong-willed woman

unwilling to accept inevitable aging

roll over her in endless repetition.

She is clear and straightforward with the overworked aides …

never allowing a self-righteous, angry

inflection to enter her voice as she,

for what seems like the hundredth time,

asks the careless ones to remember

– every morning –

her blind father’s lifeline to the outer world,

his hearing aids.

She spends hours planning that special party

to brighten the days of her parents

and their nursing home neighbors …

but never wakes the day of the party

filled with burning resentment at

spending the first sunny day in ages

in an atmosphere of forced gaiety

tinged with the scent of urine,

rather than in the invigorating embrace

of her beloved, neglected garden.

She methodically works her way through the tangle of paper,

appointments and red tape that

make up the family affairs …

never allowing anxious eyes to

drift to the clock

or nervous thoughts to the

billable hours she’s missing

as her own bank account sinks ever lower.

She glides through her days easily juggling clients/home/family

and, if ever there’s a moment left over,

her own projects …

never breaking a sweat,

snapping out a barbed response,

appearing disheveled and wild-eyed,

or, heaven forbid, melting down.

And she does it all through the golden gift of a loving heart …

never acting out of the dark burden

of a well-learned and over-developed

sense of Responsibility.

The golden daughter glides behind me,

living her perfect life alone in my hindsight …

while I continue to answer the demands of our days

in the best way that I am able …

perfectly imperfectly.

(written in 2005)