On my daughter's 18th birthday

To a Daughter Leaving Home
Linda Pastan

When I taught you

at eight to ride

a bicycle, loping along

beside you

as you wobbled away

on two round wheels,

my own mouth rounding

in surprise when you pulled

ahead down the curved

path of the park,

I kept waiting

for the thud

of your crash as I

sprinted to catch up,

while you grew

smaller, more breakable

with distance,

pumping, pumping

for your life, screaming

with laughter,

the hair flapping

behind you like a

handkerchief waving

goodbye.

I first read this poem when Shameka was 8 and was learning to ride a bike. Today she turned 18, and we gave her a fitting gift- a new bike. I feel called like an evangelist to tell every mother of every 8 year old to look long and hard at them as they ride away.

And Shameka- don't forget your helmet. I love you