Geralyn Adams | Gewelianna

Her two front teeth are missing.

Her bangs are jagged,

uneven from where she cut them with scissors

when no one was looking.


She says,

“I want to be like you

when I grow up.

You sew and you cook me eggs.”


I play Spanish music on the radio,

she sits in the backseat dancing

like a whirlwind, unrestrained.

I wish she could stay this way.


“When I’m older will I still like applesauce?”

She is beginning to grasp the idea of aging.

“And will I still like soup?”

She says, “I’m going to be big and tall like you

when I grow up!”


She always wants to help me cook,

so I let her pour measured flour.

She tells me, “You should open a restaurant,

your cooking is good.”


All she wants when she is four:

to be a dog. She crawls around on hands and knees,

barks, pants, and will roll over on command.

She puts her face into a bowl of pasta

raises her head to bark, sauce and gobs of tomato

color her face red.


She loves to wear makeup now

and blushes when I say,

“You know you’re beautiful without it, right?”

Still, she asks me to paint her nails.


She says,

“Do you want to have kids?”

When I ask her if she wants nieces or nephews


she replies, “No.”


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