Letter to my future daughter

I do not wonder what you’ll look like. 

You will look like me, but

longer in the face,

like I look like my mother,

and she hers,

shorter and shorter to facelessness.

I don’t wonder what your laugh will sound like.

You will laugh like me, but 

hopefully more often,

like I laugh like my mother,

and she hers,

on and on into softness but

I do wonder things like

whether or not you’ll drink

the bitter dregs caught at the 

bottom of your wine and if 

you will tease your lovers with 

the knowing smile I will 

teach you in your twelfth

summer, when your father

isn’t home.  

I wonder how you’ll take your coffee and

how you’ll style your hair and

what your favorite famous last words will be,

if you’ll prefer silver jewelry to gold.

I wonder what you’ll think of me thinking of you,

on a particular wednesday in October,

years before I wished for you.