The Way a Daughter Would Know Her

Less nurse than wry smile across an easel and,
                   “If you’re so hungry, you make us dinner!”
Early morning emptier of dish drainers.

Less hiker than salt swimmer, head resolutely above water.
About equal mother and daughter, rarely disobedient as either.
Younger sister. Wicked tennis partner.

Driver of station wagons, stitcher of tiny smocked dresses, knitter
                   of reindeer sweaters.
Finder of mittens, repairer of wrenched zippers.

Less gullible than you would at first glance guess.
Reader, when stressed, of Agatha Christie, Robert Frost and
        The New Yorker.

Adlai Stevenson admirer, staunch arguer for human rights
        but not a public speaker.
Nettler of windbags. Planned Parenthood donor.

Less gin and tonic than Earl Grey, more Yardley’s English Lavender
        than Oil of Olay.
Follower of recipes exactly, flour-sifter.

Minister’s child and eventual attendant at church “but I only go
                   to sing in the choir.”
More laugher than joke-teller. Well-practiced eye-roller.

Quick observer of human emotion, noter of an infinite variety of color.
Unshakeable Vermont-lover, but hold the maple sugar.
Happy wife and then less so of a philanderer as long as she could stand it,
        and lonely after.

At her piano with the same Bach over and over.
More listener than talker but in time ears failed her. Learner
                   of American sign.

Ovarian cancer: non-survivor.
More alive in mind than a handful of chalk under marble
        next to her parents in Saxonville.